


bloody waters

by AgentMal, BabaTunji



Series: an arrangement [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cousin Incest, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, King Killmonger, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Politics, This Is Not A Coercive Band-aid, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentMal/pseuds/AgentMal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabaTunji/pseuds/BabaTunji
Summary: What happens after Erik wins the challenge and marries T’Challa.





	1. Calm

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 2 in a series, you don't need to read part 1 to understand part 2. An exercise in world building with the backdrop of family drama. Reviews are appreciated lol, even if its to say, blah blah makes no sense (then ill respond with my own mental gymnastics)
> 
> Special thanks to my lovely beta reader, mahalshairyballs (galaxia7) and breakfastlunchanddinner you make me not suck wooo!) 
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
> Reference to past marital rape, assault, mentions of bodily fluids and vomit.  
> Playlist while you read: https://open.spotify.com/user/1278819366/playlist/3HBJaKZhV03LTjxo7Q9z0N
> 
> Come talk to us!  
> https://writingwakanda.tumblr.com

T’Challa wakes up slowly, disoriented by the dark. When he checks his kimoyo beads, the time reads 2am. He had gone to bed earlier in the day after they’d arrived in ... His thoughts trail off then. So, the last few days hadn’t been some fevered dream.

He considers going back to sleep, but decides to get up. He goes to the bathroom first, it’s different from the rooms in the palace— more space, more plants, more natural light. Moonlight bleeds through the stained-glass walls.

It might have been romantic even, for the last royal couple who used these rooms. His mind feels as if it is under water and the static doesn’t dissipate even after he’s relieved himself.

When he passes the wall length mirror he pauses. He looks the same. He feels different, however. Beyond the cotton balls in his head and the enforced mute on his thoughts.

The attendant who had served him yesterday had given him something herbal— he assumed it was for pain. Which partially explains why his mind is so foggy. She had given him other things as well, though he’s left those items in the nondescript container she’d brought them in.

He hadn’t been able to talk to his mother or Nakia before leaving for the royal Honeymoon suites. The tradition and rush around the wedding ceremony had been partly why, but T’Challa wonders if Nakia hadn’t simply been avoiding him.

His stomach reminds him then that he hadn’t eaten much before falling asleep. He walks towards the central part of the suite where he remembered seeing a food pantry.

The suite is understated in its beauty, designed for comfort and leisure. The theme is warm gold and soft whites, the occasional purple peeking through curtains or miscellaneous furniture. It functions as intended because by the time T’Challa reaches the kitchen area he feels a bit less unsettled.

The kitchen area is fully stocked for their stay and he rifles through the cupboards and cabinets. He finds mostly dry foods, dry fruits, and some other snacks. The people who had stocked these rooms did not expect its inhabitants to spend much time cooking if at all.

The large refrigerator yields better results. He takes some pineapple slices, debates using a fork, but gives in to his hunger and eats it straight from the container.

He’s still staring at the contents of the refrigerator, deciding if there’s anything he wants, when he hears a door opening.

His heartbeat speeds up, but he doesn’t turn around. He reaches for one of the palm wines on the top shelf— he recognizes the bottle but his mind is too intent on his cousin’s arrival to focus on why.

He turns, setting the wine on the island table, eyes focused on the half-eaten pineapples. The silence stretches and he reaches once more for the sticky fruit.

“So, that’s where the fridge is?” His cousin’s voice breaks the silence. T’Challa pauses then continues eating. The man brushes past him, walking towards the still open refrigerator.

The brief touch sends his heartbeat into overdrive and he stops eating all together. He doesn’t know what to focus on. Killmonger’s blasé attitude or his odd words. Why wouldn’t he know where the refrigerator—

It starts to make sense after a while and T’Challa finally turns to face him. His cousin has changed from his earlier travel clothes to a loose shirt and a dark pair of the dhoti-style pants. T’Challa’s eyes trail unbidden over the curve of his shoulder, then down.

He is not wearing kimoyo beads, though T’Challa knows he’d been given a set. kimoyo beads typically synced with most things in a household, and were important not just for interacting with temperature or other controls but in accessing different parts of the living area.

His cousin had not grown up in Wakanda, therefore would not know all the things even a small child knew. Like what a Wakandan style refrigerator looked like, or how to open it. The realization was both humorous and terrible.

When his cousin turns away from the fridge, his arms are laden with different food items. He was not the only one unsatisfied with the selection found in the food pantry.

His cousin sets the food down on the island bar next to T’Challa’s pineapples.

They eat in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, T’Challa sees he’s also found the eating utensils.

When T’Challa finishes the pineapples, he reaches for the wine.

It had been one of his favorites when he was younger, he realizes, recognizing the green and white wrapper as he turns the bottle in his hand.

Then he stops, remembering why he hasn’t seen this type of wine in more than four years. He looks up to see his cousin is watching him.

He raises an eyebrow slowly, and T’Challa notes the resemblance to their grandmother, Azzaria. It was the nose.

His cousin doesn’t speak and T’Challa, in turn, doesn’t look away. The man is eating rice still cold, since he doesn’t know where the food warmer is or how to use it.

The absurdity of his cousin being Wakanda’s king hits him once more and he fights the urge to laugh. The anger comes after. This was wrong. Everything about this situation was wrong. But it was happening.

“Would you like some?” The question is an afterthought.

T’Challa is already looking for cups, when he passes the food warmer he turns it on, even if his cousin didn’t know how to use it, he would probably recognize it now. Or if T’Challa used it, at some point during their stay.

How had his mother gotten this specific wine to the suite so quickly? There was little doubt in his mind this was her machination. The wine wasn’t particularly popular, and some of its ingredients were imported, making it even more expensive and not worth the hassle for most. There were certainly better wines, locally made and much better tasting.

He finds the cups, and his hands shake a bit when he brings them back to the table. His cousin has finished the rice, and what T’Challa assumed was grilled lamb. He must have been hungry or just a fast eater.

T’Challa cracks open the seal and carefully twists off the cap. Without preamble he pours a shot, then another. He looks up to see his cousin watching him intently now. Once done pouring, he slides the cup over to his cousin.

T’Challa watches him handle the cup, and his heartbeat which had slowed down after he realized what the wine would do, races once more. If the man did not drink the wine—

Impulsively, T’Challa closes his eyes and downs the alcohol. It tastes just as bad as he remembers.

His husband drinks after watching him drink. Shot for shot, each time. Several double shots later, he closes the bottle.

T’Challa had discovered years prior that this wine interacted very badly with the heart shaped herb. It had been a very painful lesson, one that may have killed him had he not received prompt medical attention.

He confirmed the wine’s effects months later with much reduced doses, and had still been feeling the effects of the wine for days after. His mother had banned the wine since, and then bought out the proprietor who sourced it anyway.

There was the possibility the wine would have no effect on the man. Bast willing, it would kill him. Or kill them both. It had only been a few days since the herb had been removed from his blood stream.

T’Challa reopens the bottle and pours another shot for himself. He’s still hungry. The pineapples would not be enough, so he turns back to the refrigerator. Whoever had stocked it, had not done so with his preferences in mind.

He gets some of the skewer-meat, impaled artfully on long wooden sticks from the refrigerator, and re-warms it. He doesn’t know if his cousin is watching, the buzz of alcohol so much more potent than it had been since before he had first taken the heart-shaped herb settling in fully. He checks his kimoyo beads while he waits. 2:23 am.

Time seemed to be passing slowly. He fights the urge to glance at his cousin as he waited for the wine to take effect.

When he pulls the warm meat out, his cousin has come to stand beside him. When he reaches for one of the sticks of meat, T’Challa doesn’t stop him, taking one for himself. He eats slowly, savoring the flavor.

The meat is spicy and tender, the seasoning even all around with grilled onion and sweet pepper. The other sticks of meat quickly follow, till the plate is empty but for the sticks themselves.

When T’Challa goes to the sink to wash his hands, his cousin follows him again. The motion of washing his hands feels almost ritualistic with his growing buzz. He takes a long time.

It reminds him of their shared bath two nights prior. The watching and the waiting. The discomfort is almost normal. Almost.

He leaves the kitchen after he’s dried his hands. Taking the wine and his cup with him.

He walks through a connected hallway and enters the main parlor. The room is warm, almost too warm; T’Challa is still wearing the dark long sleeves and thick pants he’d traveled in.

He sits gracelessly on the large reclining lounge. As he balances the bottle in his lap, the cup tumbles onto the carpeted floor. He ignores it. He didn’t need it anymore.

He wishes suddenly and fiercely that he were home, in his own rooms, asleep. He wishes the past week was just a very vivid dream. Something to wake up from.

The lounge dips and T’Challa is no longer alone. He ignores his cousin, listening intently for any sign that the wine was taking effect.

Before, he would have known. With the herb, if he’d concentrated, most sounds, even minute ones, could be heard. Like another person’s heartbeat, the flow of blood. But now, he doesn’t hear them. He can’t even hear the man breathe. He wonders if that’s on purpose. Probably. Killmonger was a serial murderer after all. A trained killer.

Killmonger; his cousin. Erik sounded much better. Killmonger. The name was ridiculous. Fitting, but ridiculous.

T’Challa takes a swig from the bottle. The motion puts Erik back into T’Challa’s line of sight, and their eyes meet. He is still watching T’Challa. That’s not a surprise. His cousin was obsessed with him. He almost laughs at the thought, but stops himself before he chokes.

He wipes the corner of his mouth and offers the bottle to his husband. An offering of death. Or not.

The way things had been going lately, his cousin would walk away from tonight slightly hungover instead of dead; dead like T’Challa would have been if he’d tried this during the years he’d lived under the herb’s influence.

His cousin takes the bottle and sets it down. His eyes don’t leave T’Challa and it makes his heartbeat race. Surely this - and his mind pushes the thought of what ‘this’ was away, far away - surely it could wait for another time—when they were both dead perhaps?

“Come here.”

T’Challa’s heart sinks. He didn’t even sound buzzed.

Then he puzzles over what ‘here’ means. There was not much distance separating them. He doesn’t want to be any closer. The thought of moving closer is repulsive.

T’Challa decides to ignore him. If he wanted something then he would have to take it.

T’Challa gets up to leave the room. Maybe he would find more of the wine to drink. He would leave this bottle to his cousin. He hopes Killmonger chokes on it.

As T’Challa moves away from the lounge, he listens for whatever the man would do. He hears the movement before he feels it and twists quickly out of the way, though not before he’s caught by the elbow. T’Challa pushes his full weight into his other arm and swings. He’s not trying to get away now, he wants to hurt the other man.

The impact is satisfying, if short lived. Pain travels up the arm not in contact with his cousin’s face from being wrenched and T’Challa feels dizzy, nausea increasing as the arm in his husband’s hold is twisted back. His other hand falls to his side.

His cousin does not know his own strength, however gently he might have been with his maneuver, because T’Challa feels the muscle sprain as it happens.

The arm would be dislocated soon. He can’t see his cousin’s face and the position hurts the longer it’s held. Slowly, he forces himself to untense. Waits to be released.

He’s very flexible; he could probably wriggle away, or try something else that would truly enrage his cousin.

His husband does not release him, instead pulling them both down to the carpet, maintaining the hold as he maneuvers them so T’Challa is in his lap. T’Challa’s whole arm burns and he fights tears, remaining quiet but for his own harsh breathing. The hold is surprisingly effective. Even if he wasn’t already buzzed.

When he is finally released, T’Challa doesn’t roll away. He fears his cousin would realize he’d been poisoned, another part of him hopes the man might be pacified if he did not fight for once.

T’Challa rearranges himself in his cousin’s lap, feeling resigned. They’re of roughly the same height, T’Challa a bit taller. It is an awkward position. He faces away from the man.

“The beads. You use them to open different things. What sign language does it use?” 

T’Challa is expecting several things, and the burst of pain shooting through his arm serves as caution and a distraction. He imagines he is speaking to a child, an evil child.

“Wakandan sign language. The kimoyo beads come with a tutorial for the basic commands.”

He shifts to stretch his legs and he feels the younger man tense underneath him. “Show me.”

T’Challa lifts his dominant hand to obey, the one he’d used to punch his cousin earlier. He uses a shorthand command to pull up the main menu.

“That’s not a standard sign.” T’Challa pauses, he couldn’t see his cousin’s face, seated as they are. He goes over the implications of his cousin’s statement.

So, Erik did know how to use the beads, or at least had standard knowledge on how to use it. Then why was he asking T’Challa? What was the point of all of this?

He responds feeling more annoyed, “You can change command signs as you like in your personal settings.”

He demonstrates this by flicking to the general tutorials.

“Your beads are different.” T’Challa waits for any more observations from his cousin. Who had apparently used the beads, enough to know what was standard and what wasn’t and now questioning T’Challa about his being different.

“They are built to be customizable.” It's true technically. There were all sorts of add-ons for style or accessibility. Within reason usually and used frequently by most Wakandans. But T’Challa has a growing suspicion the man already knew that.

“Go back to your home screen.” T’Challa frowns, and navigates back. He notes the time again, it is 2:36 am.

“What’s that icon in the corner for?” Erik raises an arm and points to a black icon the shape of a cat’s head. T’Challa stares for a moment too long. It was one of Shuri’s modifications and functioned mainly as a security feature.

“A personal modification.” Erik shifts a bit under him and T’Challa goes very still, till the shifting stops.

“How many of these do you have? Tell me what they do.”

And so, it goes.

T’Challa tries to be as vague as possible, waiting for the wine to take effect. His cousin unfortunately is not easily misguided, and realizes most of the modifications on T’Challa’s kimoyo beads are for increased security. He also makes the connection that T’Challa was not the one to make _all_ of these modifications.

“How old is your sister?” The question comes after T’Challa’s beads notify him of a new message from her. He does not open it. Going back to the general search page.

“Why do you ask?” T’Challa can't keep the annoyance out of his voice. If his cousin was even a little buzzed he couldn’t tell. He had yet to show any of the signs T’Challa had, within an hour of ingesting the special wine. His heartbeat at T’Challa’s back remains steady, his mind sharp and making connections T’Challa really didn’t want him to be making.

“Just curious. She stuck pretty close to your mom.”

T’Challa’s not sure what bothers him more, the fact that Killmonger had been watching his sister and mother or that he was curious at all.

“So... fourteen? Fifteen?” He seems unbothered by T’Challa’s growing reticence.

“Hey.” His hand moves closer to T’Challa’s face, making T’Challa reflexively turn his head away. Unfortunately, the motion shifts his position and he finds his back is now all but resting against the man’s chest.

He can feel the man’s heartbeat more clearly now. It is not as steady as it was before. T’Challa’s own heart races with it. His arm twinges and he wonders distantly where he put the remaining medication the attendant had brought to him the day before.

If his cousin blacked out or suffocated, it would be easy. If he struggled and T’Challa was within his reach, it could end badly. Thinking about all the ways things could go wrong does not however dispel the newfound relief T’Challa feels.

He wonders what his father felt when he killed his own brother.

N’Jobu betrayed Wakanda. He gave an outsider information to successfully invade and steal away with some of their most precious resource after killing several Wakandans in the resulting explosion. Among them W’Kabi’s own parents. Who now, ironically enough, sided with the son of the man responsible for his parents’ death.

T’Chaka had killed N’Jobu and then covered up the whole affair. If his cousin died tonight, would anyone know the actual cause? Beyond him and his mother? Would anyone care? Surely it was insanity to allow this man to govern a whole country? An outsider and a glorified serial murderer. Now Bast’s own avatar: Damisa-Sarki, the Black Panther.

His uncle had certainly faded into obscurity easily enough. His son forgotten— for a while anyway. The reminder of how they’d gotten into this mess makes T’Challa tense, waiting.

It would be as Bast willed it.

The familiar platitude is not as comforting now.

Was it Bast’s will that N’Jobu’s son return to his father’s home in search of destruction and revenge? Was it her will that he become king?

T’Challa watches his cousin’s hand lower back to the ground from the corner of his eye. He imagines that once the man’s blood begins to burn he would be free to leave. He could make amends after.

“Do you think your father would have wanted this?” T’Challa grows tired of waiting, but it is as if he’s frozen, for the moment. His voice sounds odd in his ears, he wishes he’d stayed in the bathroom.

He can hear the man’s breathing now. It sounds labored. Did he realize he had been poisoned?

His cousin shifts again. This time both hands wrap around T’Challa’s torso, his movements are slower but T’Challa doesn’t react beyond tensing further at the embrace. His heart sinks with the embrace. Even weakened, getting out of the man’s grasp would be difficult.

“He thinks we’re lost.” His husband’s lips are at his ear. T’Challa parses the words slowly. His cousin was probably referring to the vision after his coronation. T'Challa doesn't know how to respond. His cousin’s lips move lower. T’Challa speaks again, when those lips meet the back of his collarbone.

“Are you lost, cousin?” T’Challa speaks calmly,  knows the man can hear his racing heartbeat.

His husband bites gently at the skin of his neck. It makes T’Challa feel nauseous and an unfamiliar weight in his lower belly. The man’s touch stirs up something raw that T’Challa refuses to examine. His cousin wished to hurt him, that’s all this was.

“I’m right where I wanna be. T’Challa.” He says T’Challa’s name like an afterthought, almost lovingly.

Then he begins to cough. He doesn’t stop. Finally he releases his hold and T’Challa takes the opportunity to pull away slowly. 

When he turns to face Erik he can only watch the tears flood Erik’s eyes, and his face contort with exertion. T’Challa gets up then walks away towards the bedroom.

It would be as Bast willed it.

-:-

The container is hidden among his personal belongings in the bedroom. The attendant who had given it to him earlier the day before had also given him some vague direction for its contents. He opens the box again.

The contents of the box are to the point. Efficient, like their giver. He sets the box down and takes the Assegai out from among the other, more lethal weapons. The walnut-sized device sits innocuously in his hand, but the shape is a little different than what T’Challa expected. It’s designed differently; perhaps one of his sister’s modifications even.

On a whim, T’Challa pulls up the message he’d been notified of earlier on his kimoyo beads. Shuri’s message is brief. The Winter Soldier and Agent Ross were now secured elsewhere. She also sent her greetings. T’Challa re-reads the message several times. There were no new messages from his mother.

The light on the Assegai blinks innocuously in his hand. Its design allowed for an easy grip, its sleek form and dark coloring mostly hiding the area from which would shoot a blast of matter-less percussive force in the form of 8-centimeter-long blades.

Erik’s death would join T’Challa with his father once more. Kin slayer and king.

 

If the council didn’t raise their champions to challenge him. If Erik’s own supporters did not cry foul play. What had W’Kabi seen in Erik? Or the border tribe elders? What had his War Dog supporters? The man was a good fighter, yes, but that was not all a good king should be. What aims did he have that united Wakandan men and women under him? His cousin was an outsider, in part due to his father’s own deeds but also by T’Chaka’s decision.

To forget.

To wipe clean.

But T'Chaka had failed. Failed to wipe clean the reproach of treason and betrayal. The slate was set once more, for dead fathers.

T'Challa moves towards the bed, leaning at the edge, then tumbles fully unto his side. The nausea is back and he is still holding the Assegai in his hand.

Bast had not rejected his cousin from the gifts of the herb. The herb had rejected champions before. It was something that happened. He had hoped, along with his mother hours after the challenge, that the herb would not take. That Bast would reject his outsider cousin, like she’d rejected other champions.

Zuri’s announcement for the new Damisa-Sarki, days after the one he’d made for T’Challa, had been a new level of painful. Then the final night of his wedding ceremony had happened, and then the morning after.

Now T’Challa had poisoned him, possibly in direct opposition of Bast’s will. He would finish what his father had been unable to complete.

The bedroom door slides open and T’Challa looks up, slowly from his prone position on the bed.

His husband stares back. His face is dark, probably from the choking, and there are veins visible on his face. Beneath it all his expression is surprisingly calm. His chest heaves with exertion, and his breathing is labored, like he can’t quite breathe right.

T’Challa steels himself, pushing himself up and away. Until his back hits the headboard. Out of the corner of his eye, the Assegai blinks a warm blue in the dark room. His cousin stands further upright, leaning heavily on the open entryway.

The light from the hallway bathes him in ambient yellow. When he smiles, T’Challa can see the gold caps on his incisors. The smile breaks and he begins to cough again. Then he vomits. There’s not much that comes out. T’Challa watches, equally curious and anticipating.

He had probably thrown up in the main parlor. How he’d induced it so quickly was both terrifying and something T’Challa might have asked. That is, if he hadn’t been the one to poison him then walk away.

When Erik stops vomiting, he wipes his mouth and looks back at T’Challa.  
“Aight. I deserved that, now where’s the antidote?”

T’Challa doesn’t react outwardly, tense and waiting. He judged the man was incapacitated but not by much. And he was aware he’d been poisoned. His cousin seems to run out of patience because his next words are louder, angrier.

“Get that antidote out or I’m taking you out with me!”

His shouting prompts another coughing fit. T’Challa lifts the Assegai, watching the way his cousin’s eyes narrow even as he begins to choke once more.

Then he moves. T’Challa presses the trigger, aiming for where he thinks the man will be in the next few moments. The force blades shoot out silently, and though T’Challa doesn’t see if they land home he hears a grunt from his cousin as he dives for T’Challa. He shouldn’t be shocked by the speed, he was once that fast. He’s prepared however.

He shifts, rolling off the bed and to the floor. His cousin follows, tackling him. The other man smells like vomit and blood, T’Challa’s own nausea increases and he presses the Assegai meaningfully to his husband’s chest.

He is collapsed mostly atop T’Challa, half of his torso pressed against T’Challa’s front. His head hovering below T’Challa’s own and half pressed into T’Challa’s chest. His left arm is pressed to the ground holding himself up, the other holding T’Challa’s arm, the one he’d sprained earlier.

Pain shoots up the arm once more, and T’Challa hisses in response. This time when his cousin speaks it’s softer, labored. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not gonna hurt your mom. I’m not gonna hurt your sister. You are not your daddy. You don’t have to do this.”

The last part is muffled by the man’s own exertion, and T’Challa’s finger hovers over the Assegai’s trigger. His cousin had already hurt him, and he wouldn’t give him a chance to hurt anyone else.

“You gonna finish what your old man started? Crying cause, I fucked you up?” His husband’s words are guttural now. T’Challa can’t see his face but he remembers the possessive snarl from that night. He did not want to ‘finish’ what his father had started. T’Challa does not want to kill his cousin. He just wants him gone. He wants to forget. He wishes his father had brought his nephew home. He wants his cousin to disappear. He does not want to kill this man but he knows he should.

“Why are you lying now? Men like you only know how to hurt.” The words surprise him even as he speaks them. There was no point. Not now. But they are truthful and emotional in weight. His husband sought vengeance, nothing more.

“Men like me know how to do alot’ o things.” His breathing is getting less labored, the words less slurred. His heartbeat is slowing, however.

“Men like you are supposed to be different though. Fair. Honorable.” His husband says the last part like a taunt. T’Challa imagines for a moment, a world where his cousin had grown up in Wakanda. Where their fathers had not condemned them both.

“You ask for honor now?” T’Challa’s voice breaks over ‘honor’ and his husband shifts till their faces are level. He is no longer holding T’Challa’s arm. His expression is goading, eyebrow raised in question.

“No. Want me to say sorry for taking what’s mine?”

T’Challa presses the trigger. He feels the man tense above him, the impact muffled by the body absorbing the force.

Then his cousin laughs, it’s choked, and he leans down to the left of T’Challa’s face to heave. The sound of his vomiting grounds T’Challa, as repulsive as it is. T’Challa smells blood once more, the scent is heavier this time.

“Fuck. That hurt, look. Kitten, give it up. You don’t wanna kill me. Not really.” His cousin stands slowly, and T’Challa can see where the blade-like force has cut him. His shirt is ripped but there is little blood, the cut wasn’t very deep. The man is wearing something under his shirt. Of course, it would have been easy enough for his husband to secure some sort of protective vest after the coronation.

Erik gets on the bed, movements controlled and graceful. The man is in obvious pain, but he weathers it with minimal outward expression. When he settles on the bed he speaks again.

“Good attempt though. Now, let’s talk. I need that antidote and you probably want some reassurance.” His voice has taken on a negotiator quality. It is horrifying. His audacity and belief that his ridiculous demands would be met.

“Your reassurance is useless. I will be reassured when you are dead,” 

“Brave words but I know you don’t mean it. So, you can keep trying to kill me till I get annoyed enough to kill you. Or work with me.”

T’Challa shifts, he doesn’t let go of the Assegai but he rearranges himself so he’s leaning against the nearby wall, bringing his cousin in sight.

The man is sprawled on the bed. 

“What do you want? What is the point of all of this?” T’Challa finally asks the question he’s being wondering for days, but his husband is silent. No quick or crude response forthcoming. 

When Erik speaks, it’s long and to the point. “Your dad killed my dad because he wanted Wakanda to help. Not just hide away and ignore the rest of the world. Killmonger is a product of that isolation. What your dad was willing to do to bury my dad and his dreams. It created me, drove me to be what my daddy couldn’t.”

His cousin’s words are surprisingly genuine, frank and direct. T’Challa finds himself unwillingly dragged into an all too familiar debate.

“Where does the helping end? Wakanda cannot be responsible for the rest of the world. Only itself.” Wakanda could not be expected to involve itself in every nation’s situation, particularly when it would endanger their own.

“Not asking Wakanda to be responsible, asking that it prepares. What happens when the rest of the world comes to Wakanda?” His cousin’s words are still a bit slurred, but his breathing is less labored. T’Challa considers what is unsaid. The ‘world’ had already come to Wakanda. Erik had already taken his pound of flesh from T'Challa.

His cousin sighs and leans back further on the bed. He’s looking up at the ceiling when he asks, “Is there an antidote to whatever you gave me?”

T’Challa weighs his options. His husband had expected this attack and would only be more vigilant after this. The man had avoided the bedroom upon their arrival and had apparently been wearing a protective suit the whole time. Which he should have expected but did not. He had underestimated the man.

He also does not want to kill his cousin. Despite everything. What that says about him is both saddening and freeing. He had killed before, but he would not be killing tonight, it seemed. At the very least his cousin would not be making it easy.

“It should have killed you, earlier. If you can speak now, it is not working properly.” T'Challa's answer is more than a little bitter. He had been incapacitated for days after drinking the wine yet his cousin got off with vomiting and near suffocation.

“Good to know, gonna get somebody who won’t benefit from me choking to death to confirm. Now what do I need to do to get you to play nice?” The negotiator’s voice is back and T’Challa hates it.

“If I am not playing ‘nice’ It is because of your own actions.” T’Challa feels tired now. It is 3am and Erik is still not dead. He wants to get away from the smell of blood and sweat-tinged vomit.

“I made it nice didn't I? Not the first person to get raped won’t be the last. Now I’m willing to negotiate, instead of punting your ass for treason—" T’Challa cuts him off.

“You assaulted me, that is a punishable offense. This is Wakanda, you are not beyond the law.”

His cousin laughs and this time doesn’t choke. “So instead of running to your council or whoever deals with that shit you tried to kill me? Not very honorable move. You get points for style but you still failed.”

He shifts now in the bed to move closer to the side where T’Challa now leans against the wall.

“I know a lot about restraint, had twenty years to learn it. So, if I say I won’t touch your ass again, or your mom’s, or your sister, I mean it.” The man’s words are irritatingly genuine sounding.

T’Challa thinks back to the profile Agent Ross had given them on his husband. He was foreign intelligence and military. He more than most should have had restraint. The fact that he had chosen to hurt T’Challa was personal. Was he even attracted to other men? He’d seemed to most enjoy humiliating T’Challa.

Agent Ross’ continued presence in Wakanda was another problem, one he knew his mother was currently dealing with. Once again, he curses his own past impulsiveness. He’d created this mess at least partly and he had failed to fix it tonight.

After tonight he feared most of it would be outside of his control. They would be leaving for the capital in two days’ time, and his cousin would still be king.

“Any promises you make can be broken.” His cousin should be dead and his negotiation was a farce.

“True, but the way I see it, we can keep doing shit like this every night, or we can have a friendly agreement to leave it be.”

The words make no sense to T’Challa at first. Did he expect T’Challa to just go along with whatever he wanted? Understanding filters through in parts.

“If you harm my sister or mother, there is nothing I will not do to see you dead.” This at least T’Challa knows with every fiber of his being.

“Can’t guarantee their safety if we can’t come to some agreement. Someone got that poison for you tonight and you brought some weapons with you. Team effort.” His cousin chuckles after the last part, coughs a bit then continues.

“I’ll even sweeten the deal for you: veto rights. King consort and all that you get to say no two times on something important and I’ll listen, won’t even fuck with you again like I did.”

His husband’s words are less slurred and his natural accent is becoming clearer. He was probably just drunk still from the poisonous wine. He was also lying. 

How was T’Challa supposed to take promises from a man like this? Though his mental faculties appeared to be in order. When T’Challa speaks finally it is a demand not a request. “Swear on your father.”

“Get on the bed and I’ll swear. Meet me halfway.” His cousin’s response doesn’t surprise him as much as it would have before. As infuriating as it was, T’Challa finds he is willing to bend. The ramifications of tonight would come later.

T'Challa stands, and levers himself onto the bed. His cousin is sprawled at an angle so T’Challa’s legs are in unfortunate contact with his cousin’s, who makes no indication of moving.

When he sees what T’Challa is still armed he says with clear exasperation, “You still holding onto that? Fuck what even is it? Impact was ridiculous.”

His husband is whining about what T’Challa had used in his attempt to kill him. The absurdity releases some of the tension that's followed him since their wedding. Then he pulls up a blank document on his kimoyo beads and waits. He wants the agreement and any further clauses in writing.

-:-

The trip to the nearest medical center is quiet. Erik still smells like vomit and blood, but the smell is not as abrasive as it was before. T’Challa is wrapped in one of the blankets he found in the storage rooms and leans against the window of the transport. It is 4 in the morning now and his cousin still shows no signs of imminent death. T’Challa is still trying to come to grips with the emerging fact that he never will.

After Erik had signed their agreement he’d insisted on seeing a doctor. Though whether that was for the wine poisoning or the newly open gash on the side of his face was to be seen. When they arrive, the medical center is empty and T’Challa signs them in. One of the Dora Milaje assigned to them for the length of their honeymoon stay stands at attention not far from where T’Challa sits. His cousin walks around the area, curious and assessing.

In another life, T’Challa might have looked forward to introducing his cousin to Wakanda’s technology and culture. In this life he’s distinctly aware the man is much more aware than he lets on and a quick learner. He hadn’t forgotten the man’s line of questioning earlier. To underestimate him was dangerous, even if he was doing his best impression of ‘dumb outsider.’

When the medic on duty comes to attend to them, her eyes slide from Erik’s face to T’Challa’s.

“My king, king Consort, how may I assist?”

She curtsies as she says the words. His irritating cousin is silent and the silence stretches till T’Challa speaks to greet her.

Their distance from the capital made this the most prudent option, less fuss. It doesn’t reduce the oddness of the entire situation, however.

“My husband has traces of a toxin in his system. Could you run an assessment to see if it’s mostly gone? He vomited most of it.” T’Challa’s words are calm and measured. Nothing of this visit would make it to the public sphere but they would be careful regardless. Confidentiality agreements worked best when less details were shared.

The medic leads them to a private room. T’Challa sits once more and she asks his cousin some general questions. It’s awkward.

His cousin sticks to monosyllables and some of the questions she asks, he just doesn’t answer. Others he answers partially. When she finally gets to questions about the toxin, T’Challa steps in.

“We drank palm wine, sourced from outside. He had a very bad reaction to it.”  
The medic looks skeptical but asks no further question, smart woman.

Then her eyes settle on T’Challa, “Are you unhurt?”

He wonders what she sees. Besides their initial and humiliatingly brief struggle, he was fine. He’d tested the sprained arm and it wasn’t dislocated, just tender. “I’m well, thank you.”

When his cousin looks away from the assessment hologram displaying his blood alcohol content, their eyes meet. In the new light the gash on his forehead stands out even more. It hadn’t bled much. The suit he is wearing underneath absorbed most of the impact but the knives had cut deep enough. The herb had done the rest.

The gash had come from T’Challa shooting him once more. Point blank in the face in response to one of his crude jokes during their negotiation. Erik had cursed for a long time after, clutching his head in his hands, his blood staining his hands and his shirt and the bed. It had taken several minutes for them to continue. T’Challa had been unrepentant.

He knew the man’s vest would absorb most of the damage, and that the herb would heal the rest. He was also chewing over the realization that his cousin didn’t seem to be particularly angry with him for his failed attempts to kill him and was in fact aroused.

Which was both enraging and, he now realizes, normal for the man. T’Challa doesn’t understand how his cousin rationalized his own actions, but if he kept his end of their agreement T’Challa would sleep easier. Unfortunately, the man had not agreed to separate quarters.

After he’d signed their agreement he’d told T’Challa, “Tonight makes us even. I fucked you up, you fucked me up, we move on.” T’Challa hadn’t agreed to or disagreed with the statement. So now they are both waiting for the all clear to return to the suite and… Ignore each other.

The medic inquiries last about the gash on Erik’s face. They both give her a non-answer.

It’s mostly healed now. Erik asks for stitches, which perplexes the medic since she originally offers nanites to knit the flesh. Her warning that it would scar makes the man snicker lightly, and demand she get on with it.

When she’s done, the gash is neatly closed, the wound running down at an angle, from the left of his brow down to his cheek. The wound is dangerously close to his left eye.

It reminds T’Challa of the man’s numerous scars on his torso and arms. This would be his first since coming to Wakanda. A gift from T’Challa. The irony makes him uncomfortable. His cousin wanted it to scar. A reminder maybe? For who, T’Challa isn’t sure.


	2. When In Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist while your read, (start on track 7, “With You”)  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1278819366/playlist/3HBJaKZhV03LTjxo7Q9z0N
> 
> Back at it again and very very sorry it took so long to update. This is my main writing project and this chapter still took forever. Note: I’m using the comics here for some of the worldbuilding thus Wakandan isn’t Xhosa in this. Though because I’m a heathen I’m using the 2018 BP map of Wakanda. (It just looks prettier)  
> http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/post/171488324751/maps-of-wakanda
> 
> Special thanks and my enduring love to agentmal and galaxiaa7. Shout out to selfinduced, this isn’t your cup of tea but your character insights as always give me life. Tips my hat to cutthroatfics, I’ve taken some of their meta and changes to the Udaku genealogy.

It’s 40 minutes past 6 in the morning and Erik is watching the sunrise. The glass walls of the honeymoon suite are now perfectly clear allowing sunlight to filter in. Hours prior the glass had been stained with color. The view is stunning. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. Not if he stays a hundred years. It’s somehow better than his childish imaginings and his adult musings combined.

Linda would have loved it.

He hasn’t slept, and he feels wired. He’s sitting cross legged, not far from where his husband now sleeps. He hasn’t approached the bed since they returned from their trip to confirm he wasn’t dying. A part of him is still waiting for another attempt. He’s ignoring the impulse to touch his face. His new scar doesn’t hurt but he knows it’ll start to itch soon. He’s still a little amazed that the suit had protected his face against the force of a point-blank shot. He hadn’t really meant to test it, but now he knows. The look in T’Challa’s eyes as he shot him a third time was something else. Made the preceding negotiation a bit less grating.

His grin turns into a frown as he thinks back on the past few hours.

He had almost died. From fucking alcohol poisoning. Dumb luck and some sort of resistance was the only thing that had saved him from certain death.

If he closes his eyes he can still see the fucking shock on T’Challa’s face when he stumbled to the bedroom. He doesn’t know what type of vaccinations or drugs Wakandans were on. Hadn’t been born or lived in the country longer than a week. An allergic reaction was very possible. Or something to do with the herb, his cousin had yet to give him a clear answer on it. The wine had only made T’Challa buzzed so it was probably some sort of allergic reaction.

When they came back from their trip to the health center, he’d made a point to flush all the bottles of alcohol he could find. He keeps the two bottles of the specific wine T’Challa had given him. He would research the ingredients later.

On his way to the bedroom after dumping the alcohol he realizes someone had come by and cleaned up the vomit and the blood. He changes out of his ripped clothes and heads for the bathroom. His cousin ignores him the entire time, so he takes the hint and keeps his distance.

One hour and a shower later, he’s still going back and forth in his mind. T’Challa is a problem, one he’s choosing to let lie. Any other time, any other situation, killing the man would be best. But his own instincts are holding him back. Even if being near his cousin makes him less careful, cockier, and just all around reckless.

His saving grace thus far being, T’Challa isn’t firing on all cylinders. Probably dealing with no longer being king or Erik’s own actions, the man is obviously conflicted. Though ever since their first meeting, his cousin has not reacted or done what Erik expected him to. T’Challa hadn’t tried to settle with him quietly, instead owning up to what his father did. He hadn’t denied Erik’s challenge and when he’d had the choice he’d yielded to protect another man’s life.

It’s just unexpected, and he honestly feels a bit robbed. If their negotiation was anything to go by, T’Challa’s priority was his family and Wakanda. Erik didn’t have much sympathy for his cousin, T’Challa had lived in Wakanda his whole life. Had experienced a life, Erik could dream of. Their definitions of hardship worlds apart.

So yes, it’s tempting, to make T’Challa one more dead problem, but Erik suspects that would probably set him back more than anything. A dead husband wouldn’t reassure Wakanda or its council that he wasn’t a threat they should dispose of, post haste. Especially when that dead husband was their well known, beloved, former king.

During the wedding preparations he had spent most of his time reading briefs, scouring Wakanda’s robust isolated internet network and going through formal documents. The information he’s found has been useful, though not applicable for the moment. Knowing who was who, and getting more background of the country’s history didn’t tell him who to watch out for. Or what precedent there was for killing one’s royal spouse and not getting removed shortly after.

Exploring Wakanda’s social media and news channels had revealed a wealth of inside jokes, art, music and honest to god memes. Princess Shuri was apparently very popular online. Some of her posts and videos had views in the hundred thousand. Impressive for an isolated country with a population of only a few million. Some of the online content he got, but a lot of it went over his head. He still couldn’t tell the tribes apart from names or mannerisms, something that apparently even a child could do, especially since one’s tribe seemed to matter a lot in Wakanda.

There was so much he didn’t know. It irks him. Makes him cautious where he knows he should be bold. There’s no doubt in his mind that this is where he should be, but he honestly feels out of place more than anything. He’s dreamt of getting to this point for so long that now the reality is somewhat lacking. And that’s even with the drama of incestuous marriage and assassination attempts.

The incest part is something he hadn’t remotely expected, but it didn’t bother as much as it probably should have. He didn’t know his cousin, and their wedding night hadn’t felt like fucking family. Even if his cousin could very possibly make him regret it. The older man’s revulsion had been clear tonight and during their weird negotiation. Their wedding night had been something else. But with this agreement he wouldn’t be getting any more where that came from anytime soon. Whether that would be true for the assassination attempts, at least from his cousin, was yet to be seen.

He’s reading through a random blog about a Wakandan students experience ‘abroad’ when his eyes start to droop. It’s been 27 hours since the last time he slept. T’Challa was sleeping soundly, apparently not worried about Erik killing him in his sleep. Something which Erik is still considering.

He closes out of the browser on his kimoyo beads and approaches the bed slowly. Going to the side where T’Challa is facing and just stares. His cousins’ breathing doesn’t change, remaining soft and steady in sleep. So T’Challa probably wasn’t faking the sleep, though how he could sleep after the night they had was beyond Erik’s understanding. He certainly didn’t trust his cousin enough to just fall asleep, agreement or no.

He watches the other man sleep for a while. He was younger than his cousin more than half a decade. It wasn’t as obvious when T’Challa was awake but Erik could see the lines in his face in sleep. Even now there’s the barest impulse to reach… squeeze or more efficiently press down with a knife, till this particular problem died.

W’Kabi’s opinions on T’Challa keep swimming in his head. The words hadn’t been very reassuring, but it helps him to mute the impulse. He was already king, there was no reason to be hasty. He shifts a bit, bone tired. His eyes are slowly drifting shut once more. He’d deal with his husband later, right now he needs to sleep. Carefully he sits again, this time leaning against the edge of the bed. T’Challa’s own face a short distance away. He doesn’t realize when he falls asleep.

-:-

Okoye’s morning begins with an updated report from the two Dora Milaje stationed at the honeymoon villas. Her eyebrow climbs steadily as the report continues. The visit to medical is unexpected, their accounts of the nights’ events even more worrying. While they had not been present for whatever had occurred between the new king and T’Challa, they had been present for the unusual trip and the Medic’s probing.

There had presumably been an attempt on the king’s life, most likely by T’Challa. Which in hindsight was to be expected, though the king surviving such an attempt was very bad news. Okoye, like several others, had been taken aback by the new king’s offer of marriage, and then heartened when T’Challa agreed. A part of her, however naive, had hoped there would be some reconciliation. If the nights’ events were any indication, there would be only more strife between the new king and T’Challa.

As General, it was up to her to choose whether to interfere in such machinations or stand back and see how things fell. For now, she would choose duty and stand back. Her own bias or interference could potentially make the situation worse. She would not shed tears if this new king was removed, she only feared the unavoidable instability from the fallout.

Okoye re-reads both Doras’ reports and the accompanying visual recording. N’Jadaka, for all intents and purposes, was an outsider, but he was not stupid. His actions and response after an attempt on his life spoke of further planning and eventual retaliation. She had not spoken to T’Challa after the wedding. Perhaps she should have. She already had plans to meet with Nakia in the afternoon. It might be necessary to speak privately with T’Challa before the situation escalates.

Hours later, Okoye waits for Nakia. The woman was late. Not unusual but not reassuring after their brief conversation that morning. Since the new king’s coronation, there had been all sorts of rumors running around. If anyone knew what was true among such rumors, Nakia would. Particularly when some of it pertained to the often set apart Dogs of War. She knows some of the rumors are just regular fear mongering seeking to place blame, but such fear mongering could prove dangerous. Particularly with an unknown and inexperienced king.

Nakia arrives 25 minutes after their agreed meeting time. She looks harried and tired. Okoye almost asks about her lateness but decides against it. Greeting her warmly, their embrace extends a bit longer than it normally would have. Nakia smells like soil and vibraniuim, her neck is also damp as if she had just showered. Okoye files the information away for later.

“I am glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure if...”

Okoye trails off meaningfully as they are both seated. She is giving Nakia room to explain herself. Though the image the spy presents to her is one of distinct reticence. Whatever she had been doing earlier, Okoye would be getting no explanation. Which was probably for the best. She doubts T’Challa had acted alone if the attempt on the king’s life had truly been his doing. Silently, she asks Bast for strength.

Nakia goes straight to the point. “You asked about the Hatut Zeraze.” The police. N’Jadaka had directed them to open an investigation even before the wedding. Nakia’s eyes are piercing, her body language carefully composed to appear disinterested. Okoye is not fooled. She’s known the younger woman since she was small enough to sneak through the old catacombs with T’Challa. However, she is aware that the conversation they are having is a dangerous one. Nakia has always walked a line between her duties as a War Dog and champion of the River Tribe.

Now was no different. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors-” She probably started some herself, Okoye thinks. “About king N’Jadaka, particularly the new investigation on Prince N’Jobu’s death.” Nakia’s expression doesn’t change while Okoye speaks. She trusts Nakia would understand what she was saying and what she wasn’t. The investigation was mostly for show, to fulfill all righteousness. T’Chaka had killed N’Jobu for treason then left his son. This story was corroborated by Zuri, a well-respected acolyte of Bast and a former War Dog, and T’Challa.

“A showy investigation to find out things we already know.” Nakia’s words are teasing but they both knew the situation was not so simple.

The shadowy nature of the whole affair was raising its own share of outrage and fear. T’Chaka had been loved and very respected. His sudden death had caused no small mourning. That he would hide such treasonous actions committed by a prince of Wakanda was one thing. That a prince of Wakanda would be left to grow up outside of Wakanda, willfully abandoned by the king himself was another.

Okoye’s response is curt, revealing some of her current headache with the situation.  
“A showy investigation that’s a closed book to most and is investigating the royal family and the Dora Milaje for their actions more than 20 years ago.”

The questions being raised about T’Chaka’s reign and other potential state secrets were now an issue. T’Challa’s own impulsiveness was another. That he would agree to such an unusual challenge and then lose? It looked bad, the royal family looked complicit, and the council would not be eager to take sides until the matter was sorted fully. The council already had their issues with T’Challa, particularly for his actions following T’Chaka’s death.

Nakia sighs, and leans back into her chair. She rubs her temple then focuses her attention back on Okoye. “Killmonger was known before he came to T’Challa. I did not know him personally but I know others who did. Until his arrival we were unaware of who he really was. His being a prince and now king, it changes things.”

Okoye parses the information quickly, she already knew this. She had stood by Nakia in Shuri’s lab as Agent Ross briefed them. Why was- her thoughts stop. Then she looks carefully away. She, too, had to listen for what Nakia was saying, and what she wasn’t. Nakia’s use of the new king’s old moniker was coded language and the meaning behind it was not good. Okoye’s position made her very aware of the work War Dogs did on and off record. If the War Dogs had known of the new king before he came to Wakanda it was probably from off-book assignments. Like Zuri’s assignment with N’Jobu.

No, what Nakia was really telling Okoye was that some of these War Dogs who had known of Killmonger sympathized with him, perhaps even shared his views, and now were among king N’Jadaka’s few truly loyal supporters. Such had been rumored, but now she was confirming it.

Feeling more than a little frustrated with the whole mess, she asks, plainly. “His plans, what are his plans?” The man had waited 20 years to reveal himself. Granted, for part of that he’d been a child. However, one did not gain the record and moniker their new king had held without some sort of plan. Nakia’s expression changes finally, from the composed neutral look to something else. Okoye knows that look from shared lunches and outings. Nakia got it when she was excited. Particularly when she was speaking about her work. Okoye’s stomach drops, whatever Nakia would tell her would probably not be the whole truth.

Killmonger had been known only partially to the Dogs of War. He clearly had his own agenda, and whatever Nakia told her would be clouded with her own bias. Okoye listens anyway.

“Change. He grew up in Oakland, California, he has lived outside of Wakanda. He knows what’s it’s like, truly like, in the rest of the world. His actions as an American operative, he's trained, Okoye. Perhaps not in the Wakandan way of doing things but he’s no fool- “

Okoye thinks of the report she’d been given early that morning. Indeed, N’Jadaka was no fool though they certainly were for giving an outsider any authority, making him king. Nakia had smelled like vibranium infused soil when they had embraced. What had she been doing? Presumably by the heart shaped herb garden.

“Hearsay and rumor, Nakia. What are his plans?” Okoye interrupts, finally letting her own frustration into her voice, quickly losing patience. Nakia was loyal to Wakanda, this she knew. Though she wondered at the version of Wakanda Nakia was loyal to.

“We don’t know. The investigation, it’s digging into what N’Jobu was planning, besides, his actions with Klaue. Whatever hasn’t been buried — by now.”

Unsaid is who would have been doing the burying. The Dora Milaje perhaps? Or the late king T’Chaka himself. Nakia sounds like a chastened child now. The wild look is gone, and caution is left in its place. Okoye mirrors that caution, then she takes a calculated risk. “There was an attempt on Killmonger’s life, last night.” Nakia’s expression changes briefly then goes back to being carefully neutral.

“Is T’Challa unharmed?” Her response makes something in Okoye relax. Kings may change but some things remain the same. She trusted Nakia would piece the rest herself. She would not lecture the younger woman on duty or loyalty, but a reminder never hurt.

“Yes. They both are. Have you spoken to Ramonda since the wedding ceremony?” A part of her stumbles a bit over ‘wedding’, despite their breakup she had hoped T’Challa and Nakia would reconcile. Now it was looking more and more unlikely.

“We’ve spoken, yes.”

She decides then that the conversation, at least the coded inquiry part was over. Nakia would not be telling her what she really wanted to know but at least for now, her loyalties were clear.

“Good. Did you see Shuri’s post yesterday? The one with the mining tribe girl? what was her name—”

Nakia’s expression grows lighter, a smile blossoming on her face.

“Efi. They’ve been planning that trip for a while. I hope they got permission for the visit though, sometimes the most important parts slip her mind.” Okoye sighs in acknowledgement. Things changed but also stayed the same. “It’s for one of her experiments. Though I’m sure if she ever gets the courage to invite the girl over perhaps.” By now she’s smiling and Nakia is laughing in response.

Okoye gives silent thanks to Bast and calls for a palace attendant. She doesn’t think either of them have eaten lunch.

-:-

Erik wakes up to the sound of movement, but doesn’t open his eyes till a soft chime sounds. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Hadn’t even made it onto the actual bed. The room is flooded with light and it looks like it might be evening.

The bed is empty, and he can hear running water from where he’s still seated. He stands to stretch then flicks through his kimoyo beads, the source of the earlier chime. He has a few new messages. A video message from W’Kabi, a briefing from the General and several messages from different ambassadors and one Council Elder.

He’s still reading through the General’s brief when his cousin steps out of the bathroom. Fully dressed, though his hair is damp. T’Challa stops when he realizes Erik is awake.

There’s a long moment before the other man greets him expressionlessly, “Good afternoon.”

Erik nods in response.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?”

Erik shakes his head, smile slowly forming. Fuck this shit was awkward.

“Took a shower while you were sleeping.”

This time his cousin is the one to nod. T’Challa looks like he’s looking for an excuse to leave the room. Erik wonders why he doesn’t just leave but then he gets an idea.

“Actually, I was meaning to ask.” His cousin is already tense, but his face is blank and Erik can’t get a feel beyond, ‘leave me alone.’ When T’Challa doesn’t say anything in response, or leave the room, he keeps talking.

“The General sent me some briefs earlier. I saw your notes on some of it.” He’s being intentionally vague here, he kind of expects the man to walk out on him anyway.

T’Challa’s face goes through several expressions. “Some of my notes are incomplete.” They both know why, T’Challa had been king for less than a week.

“Yeah, among other things. You mind walking me through one of these?”

“For the next council meeting?” His cousin looks about as eager as someone asked to shoot his own foot. Erik has questions so he ignores the impulse to goad his cousin more.

“In your notes, you mention previous attempts to develop the land west of Mount Bashenga. I looked through the General’s brief and there’s no written explanation for why it’s taking so long to turn it arable.” He’d read up a bit on previous cultivations like this one. The average time for land reclamation, provided there was a dedicated workforce, was 6 to 8 months. This time included building fully formed irrigation systems, and other agricultural structures.

“The land is a mix of high grassland and mountainous regions; such development takes time and the need isn’t great.”

T’Challa's response is logical even if it was definitely a lie. There had been 4 attempts in the past 15 years to cultivate the area. One of his messages this morning had been a separate formal inquiry for the development. So, people wanted this done and there were actual reasons it wasn’t getting done.

“So, about the library initiative, is that another low need development?”

T’Challa doesn’t respond right away. Erik cycles through pages of information, and some diagrams for said library.

“It is not what we would call a ‘library’.” T’Challa’s expression is wry, almost amused when Erik looks up from the development information.

“—Though that is a close translation.”

All the documents he had received had been in Wakandan script. Some of the messages this morning and from W’Kabi had been in English, but the briefs and T’Challa’s own notes had been in Wakandan. Being told he’d translated incorrectly was annoying, and he makes a mental note to go back and cross-reference.

“So, if it’s not a library, or whatever the Wakandan equivalent to a library is, what is it?”

T’Challa raises an eyebrow in response and says nothing. Erik waits till he’s sure his cousin isn’t going to answer him. Well he didn’t expect his cousin to be a doormat, or any sort of accommodating really.

“Skip that, why’s the River Tribe Council the only sponsor? This type of stuff supposed to benefit everyone right?” He’s watching for that pinched look his cousin keeps sporting lately and he’s not disappointed. The wry expression disappears, replaced by what he’s starting to call ‘the neutral face of displeasure.’

So, this library, and he was still calling it a library since his cousin hadn’t given him any other name for it, wasn’t non-controversial. Wakandans were just like everybody else. Erik waits to see if his cousin would be giving him any more information.

T’Challa doesn’t. Once he leaves, Erik refocuses on his briefs, making some mental notes. He had been using his kimoyo beads’ built-in translator for some of the words he didn’t know, but now he makes a note to talk with an actual linguist. He doesn’t trust anyone to translate for him and he obviously needs to brush up on his reading skills.

The next few hours go by quickly. He calls W’Kabi and they talk a bit. He asks questions and gets some more information about the council and general affairs. He wavers a bit on asking for a correct translation but eventually gives into his own curiosity.

“So why does the River Tribe want a library near Warrior Falls?” He says the word library in Wakandan but the rest in English. The video image of W’Kabi snorts, then leans back in his seat.

“You mean their new gossip house? Weeeell—”

W’Kabi’s words trail of meaningfully, and Erik’s own lips quirk at ‘gossip house,’ so there is something up with the development.

“This type of development, it’s for everyone isn’t it?” Even as Erik says the words he knows they aren’t true. Wakandan tribalism ran strong.

W’Kabi laughs, long and loud, until he stops to breathe, chest heaving, and finally responds. “Come now, why would a Border Tribesman go to a River Tribesman’s gossip house?”

Erik doesn’t get what’s so funny but keeps his mouth in check, staying on topic. “So, each tribe has their own library?” This time Erik says the word in English and waits to be corrected.

W’Kabi seems to consider his words this time. “For the West, library means a place for books correct?”

He nods and waits, W’Kabi thus far had been instrumental for getting his bearings. The man didn’t seem to mind explaining Wakandan culture and mores to him. Even if he often explains it through his own bias, Erik knows to read between the lines and take the important parts.

“We have libraries but they are smaller, for collectors. Most Wakandans like their books digital. But the closest translation for what the River Tribe wants is a meeting place.” Erik recalls the building diagrams, it seemed pretty swanky for a meeting place. More like a recreation center than anything.

“Where I’m from we call those recreation centers. But what’s the big deal? Everybody gets one, don’t they?”

“Everybody gets one. But depending on the population and who gave the most on such and such festival, everyone has more than one. River tribe has several. Now they want another one.”

Wakanda’s population had been stable for the past few decades. The country was the size of Rwanda, with half the population. So maybe W’Kabi was referring to the relative size of each tribe? Hearing W’Kabi say 'such and such festival' makes him smile: Wakanda had a lot of festivals and even more holidays.

It’d thrown Erik through a loop when he’d gone through a Wakandan calendar year. Eventually he’d just focused on the ones that tradition required the Black Panther or a representative of the Panther tribe be present for. That number is significantly smaller but still more ‘federal’ holidays than anyone really needed.

“How much is ‘several’?”

W’Kabi seems to think for a moment, then he starts counting on his hands. Erik waits and tries not to laugh, the Border Tribesman was both informative and entertaining.

“They have five and a half.”

Erik does the math. “What’s the half? How many does everyone else have?”

“Mining Tribe has 3, Border Tribe has 2, Merchant Tribe has 3, and the half is for the one at the University. It belongs to Panther Tribe. River Tribe and Panther Tribe. They intermarry so much, aunties, fathers.“W’Kabi shrugs.

Erik waits, but W’Kabi doesn’t continue. His mirth is gone and it’s replaced by something more cautious. He doesn’t know what W’Kabi’s caution is directed at. Erik’s own father or bad mouthing the Panther Tribe?

“My aunt is River Tribe.” And so were a couple more cousins and aunties.

W’Kabi nods. “When they marry they join the Panther Tribe, but they still represent River Tribe.”

“So, good ol’ fashioned nepotism.”

W’Kabi doesn’t respond but Erik takes his non-answer as a yes.

He still has questions though.

“So how’d they get this through lower committees?”

Wakanda’s government structure wasn't very democratic. Most localities and the different tribes function independently, but there is a winding chain of command that eventually gets to him and the elder council. There seemed to be some attempts at balance and fairness with committee members and judges. Not everyone on these committees were River Tribe and there would be some pushback to what seems to be a frivolous and biased development.

“River Tribe, they are used to getting their way. If the Mining Tribe ambassador calls favoritism, they will find something to exchange or hold against them. Till they get their votes. Same for Border Tribe and Merchant Tribe. It takes time, but eventually they get it through. It is how they got their last two.”

Erik pulls up a search on other developments.

“The last one was built six years ago.”

“Around the princess’s 10th Birthday. I remember it, they made a real show.” W’Kabi’s voice has turned sardonic and Erik wonders at the history between him and the royal family. He and T’Challa had been friends.

Erik takes some time to read the news feed on the older development’s grand opening. There are pictures of a much younger looking princess and T'Challa. There are also some of T'Chaka.

“So, what happened this time? River Tribe’s the only sponsor.”

W’Kabi’s smile returns, It’s almost wolfish. “T’Chaka gave the River Tribe a very long leash. However, he is no longer king and neither is his son.”

Erik’s mind makes the connection even as he flashes back to the current development’s history. There’s a note. He’d skimmed it on his last read-through but now it flashes like glaring lights. The Merchant Tribe had rescinded their support recently. Not long after T’Chaka’s assassination at the U.N.

Very opportunistic. “What does the Border Tribe want?”

Erik can guess at what the Merchant and Mining Tribe want. The Merchant tribe ambassador seems engaged in some sort of pissing contest with the River Tribe, if he goes by some past legislation. The Mining ambassador is not so subtly hinting at a renegotiation of the terms surrounding the control and distribution near Mount Bashenga. There’s also the inquiries about the reclamation efforts west of Mount Bashenga. In this situation however, the Border Tribe has been unusually silent.

“The Border Tribe for the first time in years, has the Damisa-Sarki’s ear. What do you think we want?”

Erik snorts, hand going up to his new scar. “The General is from the Border Tribe. You telling me she didn’t influence T’Chaka or T’Challa at all?”

W’Kabi shakes his head, exaggerated.

“My love is many things. A strategist. A defender. Her first priority is always Wakanda. However, if our leaders do not heed her. That is not a failure on her part. Merely what happens when they choose their own comfort over what is best for us all.”

He wonders what comforts T’Challa and his father had ‘chosen.’

“You and the General both grew up with T’Challa. So even if he’s like his daddy, he’s your friend, yeah?”

He’s looking for something, and he thinks he finds it when W’Kabi shrugs. “Okoye understands duty. Kings come and go.”

“And you?” Erik doesn’t know how far duty stretches in this situation. Challenge day was every year, even if the past century showed more stability than some of Wakanda's checkered history. 

“I believe you have the right to be here as much as any of us. Your father was a prince and T’Chaka did not properly renege your claim. The challenge was fair and T’Challa himself yielded.”

“And that’s enough?” Erik knows now after the fact that if he’d killed Zuri during the Challenge it would not have counted against him. The elder man had interfered.

“It is our way of doing things. The panther line was never meant to be an uninterrupted chain.”

“My grandmother. She’s part Jabari. Or so I’ve read.” The woman hadn’t been present for the wedding. Erik had only seen pictures of her. The whole Jabari situation is another thing he doesn’t understand and most Wakandan texts don’t really explain.

“Azzaria Udaku is a legend in and of herself. But yes, she is partly Jabari.”

Erik has many questions, but he doesn’t think he’ll be getting those answers from W’Kabi. So, he chooses to be direct. “Wakanda is burying its head in the sand. I don’t plan on letting that happen for much longer.”

W’Kabi’s own gaze turns questioning. “Wakanda is stuck in its ways. How do you change centuries of tradition and teaching? You are hardly the first to want change, I’m sure your War Dog friends have already told you.”

They had. Though calling his few War Dog sympathizers friends was a bit much. Erik has been reading, and before that he was talking. At length. Reconnecting with old War Dog buddies of his dad and the rare reactionary War Dog who had come across him in his black-ops days. He’d always been careful back then, when he realized who they were, to shield himself from their scrutiny. Particularly that of the active War Dogs he met. After his coronation many of them came to him to express their support and loyalty. Now he could trust these more than most in Wakanda, for as much as he would.

What he learnt was the same each time. Wakanda was too insulated, their technology and culture allowing them peace where their neighbors knew the opposite. Their own policies shielding them from the rest of the world. There was no incentive for them to reach beyond their comfort. No reason for them to think beyond their people and their borders. At least while their peace lasted.

Though if his own father’s actions were anything to go by, that peace and insulation couldn’t last forever. When the time came, their neighbors would not look kindly on them and neither would the powers they’d spent so many years hiding from.

“You have to give them a reason to change. There’s a saying that goes ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it’”

“We have a similar adage, but how does that help you?”

“Wakandans are operating under that saying. But I’m living proof that it is broken. So, it needs fixing.”

-:-

General Okoye sends him a message in the evening. As soon as he reads it he calls her from his kimoyo beads.

“Good evening, my king.”

The mini visual of her profile is coolly professional but Erik hardly notices. His heart is racing.

“Was there any survival gear, in the area? Like body armor, weapons or portable heaters?”

If someone had been following them or more likely someone had come across Linda’s body maybe—.

When he’d bundled Klaue’s body for the flight, then the even longer trek to Wakanda’s border, he’d had to leave some non-essential gear behind. Some of that had been expensive, if whoever had come across his mess hadn’t taken the expensive stuff...

He should have taken her body with him. Fuck. Even if he couldn’t have carried it with him for the trek to the border. He should have brought it on the plane. He should have —.

“The Dora we sent found some clothing and survival items, but no weapons or body armor.”

The General’s response is curt but curious. Erik mentally goes through the list of people who might even have a clue where Klaue, Linda or he might have been. The area they’d landed was an international junkyard, but nearby border patrol and other issues made it difficult to access so whoever had recovered Linda’s body—.

He stops and considers his next words. “Was the team you sent able to recover the full list, from the safe house?”

“No. Someone had already been there recently. Some of the items you listed were missing.”

Great, he had a missing body and someone most likely on Klaue’s side of things looting his shit.

“As General, my first concern is always Wakanda’s own security. Is there any reason to believe the associate you sent us to recover isn’t dead?”

He forces his own rising anger down and thinks. He’d shot Linda in the chest, gotten some arteries if not her lung. It’d looked fatal to him as he bundled Klaue’s own dead body. But he could have been wrong, he hadn’t allowed himself to think much beyond getting Klaue’s body to the border. Hadn’t wanted to risk his success after twenty years of planning.

Not even to hold the woman who’d been with him for some of the most important parts. “She should be dead. Apparently, someone took her body. There’s a very short list of people I know who might be responsible.”

Belatedly, he realizes he’s been touching the scar on his face. He stops, in time to catch the General’s eyes flicker from his face and the scar then back to her own notes.

The Dora Milaje reported to her. She knew about his trip to medical and could probably guess correctly on how he’d gotten his new scar. Though she hadn't said anything on the nights’ events or Erik’s new scar. He doesn’t know how neutral she really is, and he’s not willing to test it right now.

“It would be prudent if you gave me that list so we could confirm your associate’s death and that whoever else was involved is dealt with.”

‘Dealt with.’ The words were sanitized from their true meaning. Whoever he directed the General’s forces to, would probably —scratch that— definitely, end up dead. Linda being called his ‘associate’ makes him chuckle though. Apparently ‘partner’ was too intimate.

“I’ll get right on it. Though I have some unrelated questions, before I let you go.”

Erik says the last part slowly, while navigating to a document of his growing list of questions and concerns. T’Challa wasn’t gonna tell him shit, not if it was useful anyway and he knew to take whatever W’Kabi told him with a grain of salt. So, until he gets in contact with some actual scholars, historians, or even an average Wakandan, the General is his best bet. He pushes thoughts of Linda away for now.

By the time he ends the call it’s 8 in the evening. He makes another folder for all the documents, books and newsfeed he’s been referencing. It feels like M.I.T all over again only with much higher stakes. The information overload is already getting to him but he knows it’s not enough. He’s already at such a disadvantage. He expects everyone to try to use him, if his cousin didn't kill him first.

He’s willing to be used, fucking fine with being a tool for the tribes to one up each other. As long as his goals come to fruition, all this bullshit would have been worth it.

T’Challa comes back to the bedroom and they continue to mostly ignore each other. There’s an awkward shuffle after he showers for the night when they both head to bed at the same time. Erik thinks about leaving the bed to his cousin but ultimately decides against it. They are supposed to be married and he doesn’t want to give T’Challa too much space. Eventually the man will get used to him.

He doesn’t go to sleep for a long time, but he closes his eyes anyway and lets his mind wander. Eventually, T’Challa, who’s lying as far as he can without falling off the bed, falls asleep. Erik follows not long after.

-:-

Their last day at the honeymoon villa, they spend it mostly outdoors. They’re alone but for the accompanying Dora till the afternoon and then it becomes increasingly clear that their outing is mostly for Wakandans to covertly or not so covertly ogle them.

Erik keeps an eye on his newsfeed as more and more pictures and videos of them out and about at the plaza nearest to the honeymoon villa are uploaded and shared and commented on. He and T’Challa don’t actually talk much beyond what’s necessary and they don’t touch either but people still manage to take all sort of “intimate” shots of them.

One of the most shared ones is a picture of them standing by a street vendor waiting on their food. It looks like they’re about to kiss. Most of the comments and shares seem to agree with the original caption. ‘When your husband looks better than the food’

The picture and the caption makes Erik smirk. T’Challa’s neutral face of displeasure makes a comeback but he doesn’t comment when Erik shows him what people are saying.

In the picture, they are both standing very close and Erik’s eyes are intent on T’Challa. T’Challa, however, is looking straight at where the food is being prepared but the angle of the shot makes it look like he’s leaning into Erik.

They spend most of the day walking and sightseeing, T’Challa being a mostly unhelpful guide so Erik looks up the information on the different places they visit as they go.

As the day progresses, there are more pictures, and even more comments lamenting the lack of a kiss. Erik is even tempted come evening to give some of Wakanda’s more romantically inclined what they want. Even with all the politics and stress he feels like a celebrity. It’s kind of fun to have so many strangers so concerned with his love life. Especially when it is really nothing like they think, but apparently a royal couple was a royal couple even if they were cousins and married only to keep the peace.

They end the day at an actual local library. Erik takes T’Challa’s subtle jab in good humor and lets himself skim some of the available books for fun instead of information hunting. Which is why he is reading a fantasy novel when one of the other library goers approaches him.

Prior to that point no one had come up to talk to them. Sure, they’d talked a bit with street vendors or the random pedestrian but unless they initiated the conversation, they’ve been left to their own devices.

“Greetings, my king. Bast Blessings on your marriage. My name is Ijeoma, clan name Chibueze. May I have a moment of your time?”

The woman speaks to him in Wakandan, and is about his height; her voice reminds him of one of the attendants from the wedding. He guesses she’s from the Merchant Tribe from her thick features. She’s maybe a little taller, swarthy complexion and dressed in a warm green. Erik is a little surprised she came up to talk to him. So far, the other inhabitants in the small library seemed content enough to take sneak pictures of them or ignore them altogether.

For once T’Challa is not in sight, though one of the Dora Milaje is.

“Hello, I’m not busy right now, so sure.”

He decides at the last second not to call her by her name, he’s not confident on the pronunciation and he figures he already sounds foreign enough.

“Thank you. I am not speaking on my own behalf but for a good friend of mine. She’s not here right now but I saw you here and I decided maybe, you would be willing to hear their plea.”

Erik inwardly sighs though he keeps his expression blank, listening. He had hoped this was just some fangirl curious enough to come up to him. Since his apparent existence is enough to warrant actual fans. But the woman sounds serious and if he should guess her age it would be mid-thirties at least. He’d need to be careful, no point in making promises he couldn’t keep, or saying something that would cause him grief later.

“My friend’s name is Chidi, Clan name Damilola. They made a formal asylum plea two years ago for their cousin’s children, but it was rejected. They are making another plea in a few week’s time but the chances of it being heard are slim. With your permission I would like to share their story with you.”

Erik takes a minute to parse the sentence and the implications. Then he nods.

“I’ve been king for less than a week but I’m curious as to your friend’s story. Do you have a copy of the actual plea I could read?”

Erik can see the relief clear in her eyes when she reaches for her kimoyo beads. “This is the link for their public profile, all relevant documents are in the description. “

Erik stands up to scan the link with his own beads. The exchange taking a few seconds, then he motions the woman to sit.

They don’t talk long but the story the woman tells is eerily familiar. Dead War Dog, foreign children, no guardians left to care for them and not considered Wakandan citizens by law. The anger that always seems to be there begins to bubble. Why would his situation be special? People fell in love all the time, had kids then died. Wakandans were no different.

Ijeoma thankfully doesn’t talk for long, seemingly content to share her friend’s profile, the plea documents and an abbreviated version of her story. She stands to leave around the same time T’Challa makes his way back to Erik. He finds himself wondering if she had intentionally timed her conversation for when T’Challa was not present. The thought makes him pause. An asylum plea would typically be heard by Wakanda’s security and public health committees. He recognized a few of the names of the sitting committee at the beginning of the asylum plea document from the abbreviated list of people who’d sent public congratulations the day prior.

So, if Ijeoma had the courage to approach him about something that is technically not under his purview, that doesn’t suggest anything good of the type of people in those departments. He makes a note to look over the names. Even if he doesn’t pursue this, the type of people who would deny such a case are the type of people who would deny him his birthright.

He’s still scrolling through some of the plea documents when T’Challa calls him.

“N’Jadaka, are you ready to leave?”

T’Challa using his Wakandan name sounds odd to his ears but it makes sense while they’re in public.

Erik casually exits out of the documents and stands. If he thought he’d get anything useful out of T’Challa he might have mentioned the plea and Chidi’s story. But he doesn’t and something tells him T’Challa, like his father before him, probably wouldn’t have thought twice about denying asylum to foreign kids with an alleged Wakandan parent. Till Erik showed up at their door anyway. Well karma was a bitch.

“Yeah, show me where to check one of these books out. Think I’m keeping this one.”

-:-

Their last night at the honeymoon suite, Erik can’t sleep. He spends the hours doing more research. On the council agenda, the council members, lower committees. As much information as he can find. He reads through Chidi’s plea documents several times. Watches the video where they tell their story and stares at the pictures of the two children, ages 6 and 9, both living in South Sudan. The rage is back but it’s turning him in circles. Chidi is non-binary and masculine in appearance. That throws him for the loop, but it doesn’t make them any less compelling.

Their plea had been rejected on grounds of not enough evidence. There hadn’t been enough proof that their brother, an inactive War Dog marked missing in action was indeed a parent to the children. How exactly they had come to that conclusion hadn’t been noted in the committee hearing but there is a whole segment on whether the children’s environment is also grounds for asylum. Those had also been rejected. There were thousands of Sudanese children in similar situations the committee had rebutted and the case of their nephew and niece were not compelling enough to grant asylum.

It makes Erik’s head spin. His parents had been married, his dad’s name is on his American birth certificate and his dad had given him the War Dog tattoo as a baby. His dad had literally done everything he could to eventually ensure Erik could seek and gain asylum. All these facts together were what enabled him to even enter the country let alone challenge for kingship.

But for everyone else, with a Wakandan parent or relative, there was virtually no way in. The most recent asylum Wakandan courts granted had been in the 2003 to the relative of a priest of Bast. There weren’t even any formal ways of naturalization. So, outsiders remained outsiders for life. They couldn’t hold leadership positions or vote on matters above local affairs. Which he supposed made sense, for a country that prided itself on being totally isolated and hidden from the rest of the world.

Around midnight he finds himself in the room he almost died in, two days prior. Ironically he’s been craving a drink, but he’s not willing to risk whatever they have in the fridge again. He falls asleep on the lounge listening to the weird electronic beats Linda would always play.

-:-13 Hours Later -:-

The throne room is quiet when Yetunde enters flanked by River Tribesmen. The border tribe boy, W’Kabi, is already present. Talking quietly with their newly named king.

They seem to be the last to arrive. It is intentional of course but something he notes anyway. The General greets him cordially, as do the other elders. He greets them in turn, and waits for N’Jobu’s son to acknowledge his presence as the others have.

T’Challa is standing to N'Jadaka's right. He is dressed conservatively much like his mother. Even now he sees the panther tribe’s matriarch in the man’s gaze and stance. T’Challa’s face is carefully constructed, impassive and bland. Whatever his feelings are for his cousin and his new position as consort, he does not allow it to show on his face. T’Challa nods once to him when their eyes meet, but does not speak. Finally, N'Jadaka ends his conversation with the Border Tribe’s leader and turns to face him.

Yetunde knows N'Jadaka had noticed his entrance, just as he knows the man had deigned to ignore him. Only addressing him when he deemed it appropriate. Their new king smiles at him, gold incisors peeking, easy and facetious.

“Thanks for joining us, I know some were worried the River Tribe would abstain from this first meeting.”

The insult is clear, as is the warning. But he was not easily cowed, not by a boy young enough to be his son. “We are here. I am sure everyone else is ready for the meeting to begin.”

N’Jadaka nods, and moves towards the throne. Once the king is seated, the General speaks, an introduction and customary greeting. Followed by each council elder with their ceremonial greeting.

The king speaks last, his tradition greeting in accented Wakandan, gaze moving over each council member. Then he prompts the General to give the initial reports, in English.

The agenda is not overly long. An inquiry for the construction of a new Hub, redistribution of land for an agricultural plant in the southern part of the country, and an update on the ongoing investigation on the late prince N’Jobu’s death. After her report, the floor is opened to the other council members to speak.

E’Nena the Mining Tribe Council elder, unsurprisingly speaks first and not in English.

“We have heard accounts from the former king and a priest of Bast. But we have not heard a full account from you, my king. So, we ask again, who are you?”

She had not even pretended her inquiry was related to the day’s agenda. It was very in-character. Yetunde rearranges himself in his seat, waiting.

Her use of Wakandan is curious. Emphasizing the ‘who’ segment of her question while carrying the weight of people and place. After the drama of the past week, the question might seem redundant, but Yetunde could already see several ways this round of questioning could go.

The king seems to consider the question, gaze roving over the room, expression open and challenging. Then he speaks also in Wakandan.

“My name is Erik Stevens. My baba N’Jobu, called me N’Jadaka. I was born and raised in Oakland, California. I grew up on stories of Wakanda, its people, its wonders. I knew my dad was a prince. That I was also a prince but I didn’t know why we never went home. Just that home existed.”

Seemingly on a whim, the king stands up from the throne and walks off the dais. Then he turns facing them all. Yetunde notices the way T’Challa reacts, tensing in response to his husband’s movements. His eyes locked on the man now standing. T’Challa’s wariness is unsurprising. The marriage had been unexpected, and provided it lasted would take some adjusting for T’Challa.

“When I was ten years old I came back to our apartment to find my father dead with claw marks in his chest.”

N’Jadaka says the words dispassionately as if reciting lines from a play. It is both eerie and captivating. Inviting them to place themselves in the shoes of a child, having newly lost his father.

“After that, I was raised by strangers. My mother was already dead and my father’s best friend had disappeared. Eventually my anger formed into intent. I wanted to kill my father’s killer.”

N’Jadaka lets the words sink in, his eyes once more on T’Challa, whose expression remains stony.

“To do that I had to know who would have wanted to kill him. So, I dug up all those old stories and eventually, give or take a few years, I realized what my father had been trying to do. Who had killed him and why.”

They all already knew who N’Jobu’s killer was. Corroborated by Zuri, an eye witness, and T’Challa himself. Though the specifics of his death were still buried in hearsays and rumors. Collectively, they wait for N’Jadaka to continue.

“My father gave Ulysses Klaue the information to successfully infiltrate Wakanda.”

More titters, louder this time. This is new information.

Yetunde notes the border tribe boy doesn’t react beyond a tightening of his mouth. So, he already knew and this is shaping into a calculated play. Quietly he applauds N’Jadaka. Better for such news to come from him than rumors and hearsay later. T’Challa’s expression remains cool if tight, as his husband continues.

“Why would N’Jobu do such a thing?” This time it is not E’Nena speaking but Rajvahi, The Merchant Tribe Elder. Yetunde sighs inwardly, while he had the same question he is very aware of how they are all playing into the man’s hand. Already he can see how this exchange will go.

N’Jadaka hums as if in deep thought. “What would drive a prince of Wakanda to betray his home?”

The man then reaches for a box, unnoticed till now on a nearby table. He pulls out journals, worn and weathered.

How convenient, Yetunde thought with another sigh. The General’s face is neutral although, like T’Challa’s, tight. He has no doubt most of the information N’Jadaka would ‘reveal’ today was already known to the two.

“My father kept journals of his time as a War Dog in America. It’s how I was able to piece the real story together.”

A story that would no doubt align with N’Jadaka’s own goals. Yetunde has questions of his own, about the man’s past and his capabilities as king. But he is starting to realize that no real work would be done till all the gathered members had satisfied their own curiosity. He is also aware that whatever questions they’d ask would probably be used by the man to turn the discussion to places none of them wanted.

Already they were moving in less than productive directions, complete with each elder taking a turn to peruse the journal’s contents. When he finally injects himself into the discussion, he cannot hide his own irritation. The man was obviously playing them, his answers polished, his reactions manufactured. He knew a player when he saw one and their new king certainly had a story to sell.

“There is already a formal investigation into N’Jobu’s death and his dealings in the U.S. While it is important we set things right, I find it tiring to rehash things we already know.”

He ignores the titters and the looks. If the other council elders wish to be played or continue to dig for good gossip, he would not stop them. However, there was still work to be done and, presumably, N’Jadaka was up to the task.

N’Jadaka’s full attention is now settled on him. Yetunde chooses his words carefully. “We know your background through foreign records.”

Which was honestly archaic enough that a decent Wakandan engineer could hack it. Let alone someone on their intelligence division. “That does not, however, tell us how well versed you are as a leader or in Wakandan matters.”

His gaze drifts to T’Challa. “Your decision to marry our former king was a good one. T’Challa and each of our champions have trained from a very young age to lead Wakanda and take on the mantle of Black Panther. You, as far as we are aware, have not.”

Silence stretches after his words, and they all wait for the king’s response.

“You’re right.”

N’Jadaka’s response is nonplussed and his smile self-depreciating. “My own dad denied me the chance to grow up in Wakanda. Then my uncle.”

His words carry heat, reminders of past grievances.

“I made my own training regime. I’ve seen some of the training your champions do. I went through worse, alone. Knowing I could die and no one would care. I won’t go into detail since you can read about it yourselves.” A silent nod to Yetunde’s own words, his records as an American operative would be common knowledge soon.

“All the things Wakandans take for granted, community, safety, home. I didn’t have that. I never got to be Prince N’Jadaka. I grew up in a country that wanted me dead or in prison. So, I became Lieutenant Commander Erik Stevens.”

Then the mask cracks. The smile fades and the king runs a hand through dark locks. Frustration or annoyance, Yetunde wasn’t sure. He turns casually, walking towards the throne. Journals forgotten on the table, movements unhurried.

He motions casually to his cousin. “T’Challa?”

The call is undemanding and T’Challa approaches him equally unhurriedly. When they meet at the edge of the dais, the king laces their hands together. T’Challa remains quiet, appearing totally at ease. They stand before the throne, facing the gathering of elders. The very image of unity, a re-merging of the panther line.

“My cousin T’Challa is the first in our family to do right by me. My father never brought me home and my uncle abandoned me. T’Challa could have denied me my birthright. But he didn’t. He could have refused my challenge, he didn’t. He could have turned down my proposal, but he didn’t.”

His eyes move from each elder, searching. “I am learning to be king N’Jadaka. I can’t promise I won’t make mistakes, or that I’ll know everything my husband does. I can promise, to put Wakanda and its people first, always. I want my actions to speak for themselves.”

A player indeed. Yetunde smiles ruefully. He had expected it but it still stings. Any further inquiry to his qualifications could now be seen as an attack on the royal family’s judgement, his own husband’s judgement. It would also be being in direct opposition to Bast’s own will. The herb had not rejected him, neither had his own cousin, his own family.

“For too long we have talked, with little action.” W’Kabi’s voice follows shortly after N’Jadaka. “Bast has brought our Prince home and given us a king in her own image.”

W’Kabi’s words were not exactly untrue but they carried weight behind them. To become Damisa-Sarki, Bast had to acknowledge one as deserving. The timing of such acknowledgement however encouraged less than flattering insinuations of the former icon.

If N’Jadaka’s words had lifted T’Challa beyond reproach, W’Kabi’s were a barbed reminder of past grievances. Yetunde is not surprised when less than 2 hours later the River Tribe’s proposed Hub development is struck from the agenda.


	3. Armistice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playlist while your read, (start on”Outsider”)  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1278819366/playlist/3HBJaKZhV03LTjxo7Q9z0N
> 
> Timeline for bloody waters  
> Erik arrives - Challenge - ends Day 1  
> Wedding - 2 days long- ends Day 3  
> Honeymoon ends - 3 days long - ends Day 6  
> 7th day is Council Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! We're back and ready to rumble. As of today we have... 2 chapters after this written. The goal is a 4 chapter lead for smoother updates. (Maybe even a regular posting day)
> 
> This looks like it's gonna be quite a story so I hope you all stick around for the ride.  
> "Khuselo Umdlalo" = Tower Game
> 
> My love and eternal gratitude to agentmal, my amazing co-writer and galaxiaa7 my beta reader.

-:- 7 Days Before Current Day -: -

T’Challa briefs the council shortly after Agent Ross divulges what he knows about Erik Stevens. His heart feels heavy, thoughts conflicting as he relays the news. He knows what it means to lose a father, and he can only imagine the turmoil experienced by someone as young as Erik would have been. It is hard to mask the anger he feels, that this has been buried for so long. That they would be blindsided like this. That his father would keep this secret.

“I have recently been informed by trusted sources: N’Jobu had a son during his time as a War Dog abroad. We will be meeting that son shortly.”

The council’s immediate response is unsurprising.

“N’Jobu had a son?”  
“Who is your informant?”  
“How old is the boy?”

He responds to his mother’s question first, once the din settles. He does not mention the codename or the background Agent Ross had given;

“His name is Erik Stevens. I did not know of his existence until yesterday after Klaue escaped us.” His words are greeted with more outburst and questions.

“What was he doing in Korea?”  
“How do we know he is truly N’Jobu’s son?”  
“Where is N’Jobu? Where is the boy’s mother?”  
“Where is Klaue now?”

T’Challa tries to answer the questions he knows the answers to, based on the intel Wakanda had received and Agent Ross’s own words. When he gets to the parts involving Zuri, one of the elders’ requests that Zuri speak before the council himself.

Out of the corner of his eye T’Challa sees Shuri tapping away at her Kimoyo beads, as well as his mother sending a message of her own. Okoye and the arrayed council exhibit a mix of displeasure and perplexity.

Would it be wise to give Zuri audience? Testifying to lend evidence to the origins of his re-emerged cousin was one thing, but it would almost certainly include N’Jobu’s act of treason. Something so heinous? It would destroy a legacy that had never been in question. Didn’t the council and everyone present deserve to know the truth? Whatever he told the council, no doubt Erik would have his own perspective of that night.

T’Challa weighs his options, knowing Erik is already en-route to the capitol from the border, accompanied by W’Kabi and Klaue’s body. He doesn’t know how much time he has before he must give audience to Erik but he decides then: Zuri needs to tell the council what had transpired that night. A Dora and two king’s Guards are dispatched for him.

Zuri arrives at the administrative building shortly after with the Dora and Kingsguards, and T’Challa has them wait outside the council chamber. He receives word of W’Kabi’s arrival not long after. T’Challa has both processions enter together, watching the way Zuri reacts upon seeing Erik; eyes wide, gait halting.

Erik, in contrast, looks unbothered, a swagger in his step despite being restrained and guided by W’Kabi. He is not wearing the necklace T’Challa had seen in Busan. He realizes W’Kabi has the necklace and their grandmother’s ring.

T’Challa raises a hand, still seated; to quiet the gathered elders and stop any further escalation.

He reiterates, gaze moving from the council to W’Kabi and finally Erik, “I learned yesterday, my uncle had a son. That son now stands before us. W’Kabi, I believe you hold evidence to the fact?” He gestures to the hand holding the necklace.

The Border Tribe man raises the gold chain in full view of the council.

The council responds in titters and louder whispers.

 

T’Challa continues, “Until yesterday I had no knowledge of his existence or of what transpired between my father and N’Jobu.”

T’Challa watches his cousin as he speaks. The cool look is still there but there’s something else in his eyes. Something hot, maybe anger, T’Challa doesn’t know for sure.

“Zuri is the only eye witness we have for a secret long buried. He will speak first.”

T’Challa gestures to Zuri, prompting, “You told me last evening that my father killed N’Jobu to save your life.”

The room quiets, waiting.

Zuri responds slowly, eyes moving from Erik to T’Challa then the gathered council. The man’s hands are clasped and his expression one of regret.

“That is true. I was assigned to watch N’Jobu then. When --”

Zuri pauses, words choked, eyes watering. They wait quietly for him to continue. The older priest’s eyes are now locked on Erik, who glares back. His cousin’s cool expression has fallen, replaced by one of murderous intent.

“When N’Jobu was confronted by T’Chaka that night, he made to shoot me. Up until that evening he did not know who I truly was, and felt betrayed by me. T’Chaka stepped between us, saving my life and taking his. We left shortly after, abandoning his body there, as well as his son, N’Jadaka.”

Zuri does not mention now, why T’Chaka had confronted N’Jobu in the first place. T’Challa isn’t sure whether that piece of information is yet relevant. His father had buried N’Jobu’s crime for good reason. He takes stock of all the reactions and responses among the gathered council. Shuri to his right looks shocked, as does his mother. The council seems equally surprised and attention settles on the son of the man in question.

Erik stands alone, W’Kabi to his left.

T’Challa stands, walking past the gathered elders placing himself in front of his cousin.

“I do not know you cousin. So, I ask now, before Wakanda’s council, that you introduce yourself.”

Erik’s eyes are hard, and at the question his mouth twists into a sneer. He speaks in accented Wakandan.

“I am N’Jadaka, son of N’Jobu.”

T’Challa takes in the face of a cousin he’s never known, a child abandoned, and he says clearly, “N’Jadaka, son of N’Jobu. Wakanda recognizes your claim. Had we known of your existence, this situation would be very different.”

There is a shift in his cousin’s expression and the man looks away from him to the council, this time he speaks in English.

“Nah, it’s too late for that. I want the throne.”

T’Challa’s own eyes narrow with the words even as the gathered council reacts loudly to his cousin’s words. T’Challa can’t focus on the exclamations but he hears his own mother break through the mesh of voices.

“Challenge day is past.” Ramonda steps away from Shuri and the elders walking towards where T’Challa and Erik stand.

“We recognize your claim to royal blood, but we cannot entertain such requests.” Her voice is pitched to carry, reasonable and resolute. This would end here.

Erik looks from her to T’Challa, eyes narrowing.

“I was busy, recovering something your son lost.” Erik gestures to W’Kabi who nods back.

T’Challa’s heart sinks. His cousin continues.

“Klaue’s dead, I killed him myself. I delivered justice that your king failed to. His body is with the Border Tribe and I’m challenging, right now, for the throne.” He doesn’t mention he had been the one to break the man away from T’Challa’s custody.

Before T’Challa can respond the council is speaking again, louder this time.

“It would take weeks”  
“Surely there is no reason-”  
“He must wait-”

When T’Challa finally speaks, it’s directed at W’Kabi.

“Do you support his challenge?” He already knows the answer but he asks anyway. At his words the gathering quiets once more, awaiting W’Kabi’s response.

“The Border Tribe stands in support of Prince N’Jadaka’s challenge.”

This time there’s absolute silence at W’Kabi’s words and T’Challa struggles rationalize what had changed between challenge day and today. That W’Kabi, a longtime friend and confidant, would do this, and do it in front of the council. What was so unforgivable that his own best friend would now raise champion to challenge him?

Beyond his own hurt, he recognizes the underlying implications of unrest and strong dissatisfaction. If T’Challa refused this challenge, it would potentially fuel more problems. Claims of monopoly and cowardice, the situation is unexpected and twice as damning.

T’Challa’s jaw flexes. He tears his gaze away from W’Kabi and back to Erik.

“You do not have to do this. Whatever our issues, it can be addressed without issuing challenge.”

“I don’t need anything fancy, and I don’t need a crowd. Just you to accept my challenge.” At the word ‘crowd’ Erik gestures to the council.

T’Challa doesn’t look back at the council when he responds, the impulse to fix this sordid mess overpowering everything else. After the challenge was over maybe his cousin would be willing to compromise.

“I accept your challenge, N’Jadaka.”

Erik’s sneer melts into a grin at his words and the sight makes T’Challa’s heart sink even lower.

“I waited my whole life for this.”

-:- Current Day -:-

His husband is still holding his hand when the last of the gathered council elders leave. They had separated during the meeting as the agenda had been reworked. Then Erik had reached for T’Challa’s hand again following the farewell greetings and T’Challa had let him. They stand together once more now, not far from the dais.

T’Challa waits a moment after the doors slide shut and then squeezes hard, nails digging into flesh. Erik’s hands are smaller than his, and the difference makes the pinching easier. When his skin breaks, his cousin hisses, then his expression forms into a familiar smirk. He doesn’t let go. They are not alone, Dora Milaje stand to their back and Okoye to their left.

“Not bad for a first meeting,” Erik says, not addressing the pressure T’Challa is still applying to Erik’s hand.

“Half of what we covered was bullshit but...” Erik shrugs. His stitches had been removed that morning. T’Challa hadn’t been present.

“A good introduction is important.”

Erik turns to address Okoye.

“Hey, General. How do you think it went?”

Okoye looks up from where her gaze had been studiously focused on her own notes for the meeting. She seems to consider Erik’s question, eyes going from where their hands are joined to Erik’s’ face.

“It went as expected. The council will take time to adjust to new leadership.”

“Oh yeah?”

Okoye takes a moment, suppressing a pained expression T’Challa knew would have sprung to her features were she not the consummate professional she was, then said, neutrally, “Yes, my king.”

T’Challa knew she had more to say on the subject, but Erik wouldn’t be hearing it.

Erik stares at her for a moment, as if toying with digging in further, then seems to discard it as lightly as he seemed to decide anything.

After a moment, Erik looks down at where their hands are joined. Then he smiles, full faced and almost innocent in his brightness.

“You know, I want to thank you. For working with me like this, hand in hand.”

The menacing air returns despite the bright smile. The reminder of T’Challa’s own part in Erik’s new position as king makes T’Challa grit his teeth. It is somehow worse than hearing his husband extol him in front of the elders for his hasty and much regretted decisions six days prior.

“With your help, I’m gonna build a bright future for Wakanda, and the world.”

What does that mean? T’Challa is tired of his cousin’s obvious contempt, tired of his aggression, his hints and his games. He is about to ask as much when Erik starts speaking.

“So, I was looking at the most recent mission logs. Right before the failed one with Klaue, there was a mission in Sambisa.”

Okoye doesn’t react immediately and T’Challa tenses, not knowing where this conversation could go.

“The Dora Milaje keep their own records, but if you would like more information on this War Dog mission we could summon-”

Erik shakes his head and Okoye stops mid-sentence.

“Nah, no need for all that. Just some questions, since you were there. Weren’t you?”

Okoye tilts her head, considering, then answers.

“I was. I accompanied T’Challa for the extraction.”

“Yeah. For the War Dog on mission, name’s Nakia right? River Tribe’s champion? Intelligence gathering in Nigeria, local Warlords and some captured civilians.”

Not for the first time, T’Challa’s blood chills at the thought of Erik singling Nakia out because of her importance to him. T’Challa had personally felt Erik’s wrath, he didn’t want it visited on anyone else he cared for.

Erik turns to T’Challa then, and asks finally.

“So, what happened to those women?”

T’Challa is taken aback. Okoye doesn’t answer and neither does T’Challa. He didn’t know. What had happened once the freed women and lone boy had been freed? T’Challa and Okoye had left for Wakanda immediately after recovering Nakia for his coronation and he hadn’t since thought to follow up. Nakia might have but he didn’t.

“I am not sure. Why do you ask?” The admission feels like something worse than it is and T’Challa is hit with a new sense of dread; his grip loosens.

“Do you think they all made it home? Do you think their families will accept them back? What opportunities do they have open to them after something like this? Or that they even had before?”

Erik pauses, tone mocking.

“Do you think you guys saved them?”

T’Challa truly does not know what happened to the women they helped release. He hadn’t had time to do much besides handle his coronation even had he been inclined to do otherwise, and then Klaue had re-appeared, and then everything after...

“It is not our responsibility to clean up the world’s messes. We did not create these situations. If we are able to help we do but to hold us accountable for every wrong in the world would be ridiculous.”

“Inaction helps only the oppressor, not the oppressed.”

Erik’s words remind T’Challa forcefully of something Nakia had once said in one of the numerous conversations they’d had about Wakanda’s place in the world. He suddenly feels entirely drained.

“We are not inactive, neither are we an ‘oppressor’. Doing more than what we already do, and doing it effectively, would require us to enforce our will on others. It is not our way. Even if it were, lasting change must be made by those within, not imposed by outside forces.”

At this, T’Challa could feel more than see Erik’s anger spark. “But sometimes those within can’t make lasting change, not fast enough.”

T’Challa wonders at his cousin’s naivety. Did he think Wakanda hadn’t considered this before?

“That all ends soon, though.”

At that, T’Challa frowns and turns to face Erik directly.

“What does that mean?”

Erik stares back at T’Challa for a long moment, expression melting into something more somber.

“I’ve seen what you guys have been doing. Off the record, behind the scenes. You try, don’t you? But it’s not enough.”

He stops speaking, as if waiting for T’Challa to affirm or deny but T’Challa remains silent.

“Wakanda’s intentions. They’re good, I’m sure. You mean well. But there’s no vision. No real understanding. You’re plugging holes on a sinking ship.”

He makes an odd motion with his free hand and moves closer to T’Challa, eyes bright, expression twisted into mock empathy.

“But I’m here now and I’m gonna help you guys out.”

T’Challa wonders at what his husband considers to be ‘help.’

Erik lets T’Challa’s hand go, finally; then dismisses Okoye.

“Thank you, General, I’ll send you my notes in the morning. Have one of the Dora escort T’Challa to the suite so he can change. I’ll be joining soon. We have another briefing this evening with the intelligence division.”

T’Challa chafes at the command but now is not the time to fight it. He needs to be present for whatever briefing Erik would be given or be giving in turn. He also needs time to regroup. His husband’s words today were both enlightening and frightening in their implications. He had been unable to speak with his mother upon his arrival in the capital, and now he aches to relay and work over the information he’s gained from the meeting and their conversation with her.

Impulsively, he calls,

“Ayo.”

The familiar Dora addresses him with a nod but does not break rank among the other Dora. A reminder of his new position.

“Ayo will escort me.” T’Challa makes his demand and waits with growing irritation for his husband to give his assent. When Erik nods, he moves swiftly for the door, Ayo falling into step behind him.

They walk for a while in silence. T’Challa takes the scenic route through the city and thinks. At some point he stops by a plaza and sits, Ayo standing beside him.

Erik did not know Wakanda. He did not understand their ways.

The day’s events affirm what he had first thought when he had seen holographic display of Erik Stevens.

He had felt real anguish over his cousin, over what N’Jobu had done. What his father’s and Zuri’s own silence had condoned. Now the anguish is replaced by cooler consideration of the figurative and literal monster their own secrets have created. In time, T’Challa knew the situation would be dealt with but it didn’t change the fact that it had happened.

Perhaps if he had known sooner of his father’s negligence things might be different. His cousin had been left to his own devices for more than 2 decades. Erik did not want peace. His actions today would certainly upset the careful balance that currently existed among the tribes. T’Challa had watched his father do his own balancing act over the years mediating between the tribes and he knew from experience there would be repercussions.

If his cousin is an outsider, irreverent of Wakandan culture and tradition, it is because the people who should have taken care of him, did not. N’Jobu should have brought his son home. T’Chaka and Zuri should have brought him home. Yet now it all seemed too late. Erik had chosen his own path.

-:-

“You know, no one is waiting for Wakanda to save them.” T’Challa turns from the display of current War Dog deployments when Erik speaks. They were early to their next briefing and surrounded by operatives and administration from the Intelligence Division.

He knows Erik is speaking to him but the words make no sense.

“Pardon?”

“The people who really need help. The organizations that could really make lasting change. They’re not sitting around waiting for someone to help them.”

Both are seated side by side on a high bench almost center of the communal area. Others in the room can hear their conversation. T’Challa finds himself engaging once more in this “private” conversation.

“So, where does the helping end? Humanitarian efforts are one thing but people must develop their own communities. They have to decide not is for them.”

Erik raises an eyebrow, like T’Challa’s words were something fascinating.

“So, you don’t think people outside of Wakanda are ‘developing’ their communities right now? Or ‘deciding’ to better themselves or their communities?”

His cousin hadn’t answered his question and T’Challa sighs.

This conversation is a familiar one, though the person he would normally be having it with was not Erik.

“Wakanda has peace because every citizen wants it. How do you enforce peace or change unto people who do not want it?”

“Enforcing is a strong word. People can choose what they want, though funny thing is there aren’t that many options.”

Erik pulls up a similar deployment map on his kimoyo beads, they’re both accessing the same thread to prepare for the briefing.

“So, you want to give them more options? Is that your solution?”

T’Challa doubts it would be that simple or easy. He knows the history and politics of Wakanda’s own neighbors. If increasing opportunities were enough some of Wakanda’s more conventional humanitarian efforts would be enough.

“What do you think political and economic strife does to a community? Colonization? Western Imperialism? You can’t tackle one without tackling all the others. It’s also why all your attempts at intervention are ultimately fruitless.”

He points at a region on T’Challa’s display.

“Look at these deployments. You have half of your concentrated forces in places where they’re effectively doing nothing. Why do you need so many War Dogs in Britain or France? So, they can watch them steal some more shit? Continue exploiting former colonies?”

T’Challa’s own temper flares with Erik’s words.

“Where would you have our intelligence deployed? Away from the countries who pose the greatest threats to us?”

Erik leans back and gestures to his own display.

“It’s wasteful, especially when you have significantly fewer operatives on your own continent. Look at that, these points are ground zero for any coordinated attack against Wakanda.”

Erik manipulates the map deployment chart as he speaks, changing the distribution to make a several-point star around Wakanda. T’Challa notes trading ports, international commerce centers and a mine in DRC among the points of interest.

“Historically we have had few issues with our neighbors. Not since we established our borders in the region centuries ago and certainly not since our own force fields began shielding the country since 1916.”

This is basic history. If Erik had done the research T’Challa knows he has, he already knows this.

Erik nods, the smirk is gone replaced by concentration. He pulls up footage, obviously edited by him prior.

“That’s Loki, that’s Magneto, that’s some genetically engineered kid in Wuhan, China, these are super PACs owned by Hydra, those are mercenaries from South Sudan mobilizing with the help of anonymous American donors. Thanks to my dad and Klaue they have vibraniuim weapons.”

T’Challa watches the footage and the images.

“What is the point of all this? These threats are already known to us. They know nothing of Wakanda.”

Erik’s hands pause over his Kimoyo beads, expression calculating.

“Not yet.” Erik’s voice is softer now.

T’Challa watches the footage of a boy not much older than Shuri shoot an arm cannon eerily like the one Klaue had used in Busan.

“This is fear mongering. Wakanda has all these potential threats under watch and will deal with them if and when it becomes necessary.”

Even as T’Challa says the words he knows he’s misstepped. It didn’t matter that the threats Erik had named were under Wakandan surveillance and their own defense and security divisions working on ways to deal with each problem. All that mattered is that these problems existed.

“And that’s where you’re wrong.”

T’Challa opens his mouth to protest and then stops. Out of the corner of his eye he sees one of the milling operatives nod his head as if in agreement. Something in him freezes. He suddenly realizes this conversation, it is not about him. All of Erik’s words, they were not for his benefit, but rather for the other ears in the room. Erik was sowing his dangerous ideology deeper into Wakanda’s very psyche and Wakanda was listening.

“What does this have to do with Wakanda’s humanitarian efforts? This is all speculation.”

Erik refocuses on his deployment chart, and the looping edited footage disappears.

“Wakanda has no real allies. Blame it on the isolation, or the shitty attempts at humanitarian efforts or the fact that y’ll think you’re better than everyone else.”

Erik shrugs at the end of his sentence and smiles, all charm despite the disparaging comment.

“Wakanda does not think-”

Erik interrupts him easily, imitating the voice and accent of one of the more famous Wakandan broadcasters. T’Challa recognizes the imitation for what it is because his father used to listen to the Merchant Tribesman’s broadcasts in the evening somedays.

“Wakanda is exceptional, the rest of the world cannot be held to our high standards.”

He finishes with a condescending sneer then laughs. Continuing in his normal voice,

“If Wakanda is ‘exceptional,’ it is because Wakanda is able to protect itself from anyone who tries to take away Wakandan sovereignty. Take away all this history, all this culture, all this wealth.”

T’Challa thinks on just who has been taking what.

“We cannot change what has already happened.”

Erik closes the deployment chart, then pulls up the time. The briefing would be starting in less than five minutes.

“Way I see it, you can either make allies and protect Wakanda by doing the right thing properly. Or give your enemies one more pawn to use against you.”

-:- Shuri POV (Start at “Good Enough”) -:-

Her cousin has a public handle now. There’s only two pictures and a few public posts but Shuri follows almost compulsively. The first picture is a profile shot from his coronation. In the picture, N’Jadaka’s expression is serious, and he is wearing Bashenga’s ceremonial necklace. Shuri doesn’t remember the photo being taken but she remembers him refusing the blanket offered to him after being seen by the nearby medic. He’d chosen to remain shirtless, scars on display and blood on his body. He’d looked absolutely terrifying.

The second picture is a picture she’s already seen. It is among the group of pictures taken two days before. It is mercifully not the picture the daily newsfeed used for their cover photo this morning, the one that looks like they’re about to kiss. That picture, now shared at least a million times, has been sent to her several times from different friends, family and acquaintances. No, the picture N’Jadaka uses as his second picture on his public handle is a curious one. Her cousin and T’Challa look like they’re joking in the picture. Seated across from each other on a shaded pavilion. T’Challa’s face is not in profile, though N’Jadaka’s playful grin is in full view. It’s deceptive, but Shuri knows better.

Already many people have commented with their blessings, opinions and jokes. Shuri might have commented or joked herself, if she didn’t know what T’Challa looked like when he was angry but trying to hide it. She can’t see his face fully but she knows there was probably a twitch in T’Challa’s right eyebrow when the picture was taken and his right hand hidden by their table clenched tight. It’s sobering. She still doesn’t understand why her brother had even entertained their cousin’s proposal, but now she wonders more why her cousin had proposed in the first place.

She’s seen most of the pictures people took the day before. Her cousin and her brother look good together. Everyone agrees on that at least, even both men’s respective fans. Their day clothes had complimented each other ridiculously well and both her brother and her cousin were far from ugly. But there’s a distance, even when they’re right next to each other. Unsurprisingly there’s been numerous dirty jokes and memes in the past 12 hours alone about their honeymoon. Shuri hates it. Her cousin is dangerous He had been ready to kill not just T’Challa during the challenge but Zuri as well.

There had only been a few people present for the challenge. Impromptu as it had been, the average Wakandan hadn’t heard his ridiculous speech, or watched him almost kill a priest of Bast. Surely if they had seen or heard then they might not be so quick to fawn over Wakanda’s ‘lost prince.’ She doesn’t get why her father chose to bury what her uncle had done. Now she doesn’t get why everyone who knows about what had almost happened during the challenge is being so careful.

T’Challa drew first blood but N’Jadaka had been fighting to kill, not subdue. T’Challa’s own reluctance had been clear from the start but Shuri had still been shocked when he yielded, N’Jadaka’s spears mere centimeters from Zuri’s chest. The ensuing proposal and T’Challa’s acceptance icing on a stupefying cake.

Her cousin did not like T’Challa, he didn’t like any of them. He’d been abandoned by her father and he’d come to dethrone and kill T’Challa. He’d succeeded in the dethroning but not the killing part. She’s always believed Wakandan styles of fighting superior to most of what the rest of the world used, but watching the fight between her brother and N’Jadaka has shaken that faith. The ferocity in Killmonger’s attacks had reminded her of a beast.

How that translated into any sort of relationship was beyond her. Marriage, while common, is not a necessity in Wakanda. Many people never even marry. The ceremony and agreement is mostly a formality, usually only relevant in certain disputes or irregular situations. Whatever reason her cousin had for marrying T’Challa, it couldn’t be good. Besides, her brother has only had eyes for Nakia for years.

Shuri finds herself staring at blurry videos, and clearer pictures of the two of them, and she knows something’s up. It’s just not right, and even if T’Challa and her mother and Nakia were definitely up to something it didn’t make up for the fact that they were effectively pushing her away from them by putting her out of harm’s way.

Her father was buried 3 weeks ago and so much has happened since.

Shuri is still with Efi at her clan homes. It’s been three days since her brother’s wedding. Her post about her visits to the refineries have gotten lots of views, in part because of all the buzz around T’Challa’s marriage. The actual trip itself has been really fun even if she was there under false pretenses. She’d arrived the day after the wedding with a single Dora and containers sealed several times. Under different circumstances her outing might have been remarked upon but she’s already known for being a technological genius, and she’s been doing an ongoing series on her travels in Wakanda.

Today alone, her mother has messaged her 12 times, which by itself is unusual but she can feel the worry coming from her inquiries. If the situation were different she might have been annoyed with her mother’s probing and micromanaging, but since her brother is no longer king and she’s transporting two white men that shouldn’t even be in the country; she responds to them at least half the time.

Nakia hasn’t responded to her message in days and Shuri feels both annoyed and anxious. They all have their duties and responsibilities, but she really wants to talk to Nakia to reassure herself that not everything had been turned upside down.

Thus far, the best part about this whole situation has been Efi. Beyond the convenience of Efi’s clan having a residence on the northeast side of mining river lands - and Shuri being tasked with getting her charges as close to the border as possible-, Efi makes Shuri feel less awkward and sometimes even more sure of herself. She didn’t seem to be intimidated by who Shuri was or her accomplishments. She could follow Shuri at least when they were talking about Mineral Science and she doesn’t seem to mind when Shuri talked about her personal projects. Efi is warm, at times like the sister Shuri never had, others like the girlfriend Shuri wishes she would be.

They’ve been good friends for months now. Basically, since Shuri started her 2nd graduate program with an Environmental sciences concentration. They’d met each other through a group assignment and just kept hanging out after the experimental project ended. Efi is pursuing her first vocational mastery in engineering specialized in the use of vibraniuim as hardware material and much of their studies overlapped. It made for great conversation and gave Shuri all manner of excuses to see the mining tribe girl as much as she could in between her own responsibilities and work.

Although living with Efi and her extended family for a few days has been an experience. Shuri thinks they know she has a crush, but no one has said anything to her. Just knowing looks and the ‘random’ happenstance that leaves the two of them by themselves. Shuri takes the opportunities as they come, even if any words she might say get stuck in her throat the few times she works up the courage to talk about her feelings. In the few days she’s spent at Efi clan house she’s gained new found sympathy for T’Challa and all the times he’d flubbed with Nakia in his near vicinity.

Her own stumbling is a nice distraction from the less than ideal situation at large. The Captain and his team are supposed to meet her to recover Barnes but what they would do with Ross is yet to be decided. Nakia had been the one to put him under, and the only reason he isn’t already dead. Shuri doesn’t feel any real attachment to either man, though she’s not curious as to what exactly her cousin would do if he ever did find out about two white men being allowed into Wakanda and not being killed shortly after. T’Challa, Nakia and her mother seemed convinced he would kill both, the council would certainly side with him there at least. Shuri wonders who would win between Captain America and Killmonger. N’Jadaka had the herb now, and no reservations about killing. Rogers had a shield, and is, if the footage of his fight with Iron Man was any indication, very hard to kill.

“The game starts in an hour. Are you joining us?” Efi’s voice breaks through Shuri’s thoughts and she stumbles, despite being seated. After a few moments she nods.

“...Oh, erm. Yes. I would like to play. If--if everyone else is ok?” Her voice has gone oddly pitched towards the end and she struggles to remember to say what she means, embarrassment and the impulse to impress turning her mind in circles. Efi smiles, unbothered by Shuri’s now common fluster and leans closer. Shuri’s eyes follow the motion of her front braids, lined with blue and brown beads.

“Why would anyone mind? It’s not every day we get to play Khuselo Umdlalo with a Wakandan champion!”

Shuri’s mind stutter at the words and she sighs.

“It’s been a year and I have not played in months.”

She shouldn’t be surprised Efi knows about that. Efi doesn’t sound envious though just excited and curious. Shuri is used to people being jealous, cruel at times especially when talking about her more controversial achievement. Khuselo Umdlalo had been just one more micro hobby in a massive list. She had enjoyed the game though, before she’d won a championship game playing a very unorthodox strategy and ‘broken’ it for casual and competitive players.

“You know, you do not have to play if you do not wish to. No one will think any different of you.” Efi’s voice has gone softer, empathic. Shuri hates it, even if it’s saved her more than once. Efi is very good at discerning her true thoughts, especially about things ‘everyone’ knew about her.

“No! I- I do want to play. I just… I do not want to make it less fun for anyone else.”

Efi’s expression turns mischievous.

“Well, I would be less than truthful if I did not mention that I’m hoping you will help me teach some of the older boys a lesson. They have gotten so confident since the last patch addition.”

Shuri fights her own blossoming grin.

“I do not care what the player’s digest say, there is no need to make the cooldown time for direct attacks longer. It only hurts diving strategies!”

Efi raises an eyebrow, “So you really have not played in months?”

Shuri looks away and curses her own need to know mostly everything.

“I have not had the time, Nevermind that; I know the perfect counter strategy for all those heavy defenders everyone is using now.”

-:-

“I can’t believe that worked.” Efi’s voice sounds equally gleeful and perplexed.  
“I mean when you told me, it sounded like it would work but then the game started and they all just focus fired our only full ranged outpost and -- “

Shuri reaches for Efi’s hand; a sudden impulsive gesture after going back and forth in her head for what seemed like hours.

Efi pauses her recount of the game and grips Shuri’s hand tighter, a different smile forming on her lips. Shuri forces herself to say something, past the lump in her throat.

“It was a good game, you really saved us when they realized we were in their back line.”

“And then you had to save me, because all of their defenders retreated!”

Efi’s laugh sounds breathy in the late evening din. Shuri loves it. She wishes today was a more common occurrence. That she wouldn’t be leaving in a few hours’ time.

“Do you think they will play with us again? It was a very good matchup.” Shuri’s question is soft; but she means it. She really had enjoyed herself.

Efi tilts her head, and they’re suddenly much closer. They were seated on a two-person sofa in Shuri’s room and the door was closed. Shuri felt like she was in a sappy romance. Or the beginning of an erotic film.

“Maybe. Ade and Sarabi are good sports, but they are both on a rotating schedule at the central Mine at Bashenga. So, they are not here too often”

Shuri can barely follow what the other girl is saying, gaze trailing down from her eyes, to her nose and her lips.

Efi continues, “You have to come visit again, today and these past few days with you… they’ve been amazing.”

Shuri says the words without meaning to.

“I’m glad I came. I’ve never-”

Efi’s hand reaches up to cup her cheek.

“-been this far into Mining Tribe Territory… It’s different.”

“Good different?” Efi leans closer and Shuri is internally screaming, even as she struggles to keep calm.

“Very Good.”

Shuri is trying not want to show how out of depth she truly is, leaning just a bit closer to Efi.

“Efi do you know if -”

A voice interrupts. Shuri pulls away, standing quickly then stops mid-motion. She hadn’t heard the door open. Efi doesn’t move and she feels absolutely mortified, they’d almost kissed. The words loop in her head and silence stretches till Efi speaks to their intruder, a younger cousin with short hair and a very curious expression.

“What are you looking for Jali?”

Shuri thinks she detects some irritation in the way Efi says the younger cousins name but she doesn’t dwell on it too long; taking instead the opportunity to leave the room. She feels like she’s about to tear out of her skin from the sheer embarrassment, she doesn’t even know why she’s so embarrassed.

“I’m gonna go get som- something to eat, I’ll see you two later.” She speaks very quickly and exits the room even faster.

When she’s walked a sufficient distance from her guest room area, she sinks into a nearby lounge and tries to make the loop of ‘almost kissed’ stop.

-:- (Start at “Beaches ”) -:-

“You’re crazy, you know, that right?”

The room they’re in is blasting AC and she really wishes she was wearing something more than underwear and a thin shirt. Her hair is unwashed from weeks of bedrest and the cottony static feeling is only beginning to fade from her head.

“I’ll crawl out of here if I have to.” She means it. They both know that.

“Look I don’t know what he has on you. But he’s done. It’s over. You need to-”

“The guy we were working with had a gun to my head. He was going to shoot.”

“So, he fucking shoots you first instead? Lin, do you realize how much tissue I had to regenerate? You should be fucking dead!”

Ava is shouting by the end of their sentence, and there’s a new sort of desperation Linda’s honestly not used to. She has known them for as long she can remember. A family friend who was just always around, even after she went away for school, then enlisted, then came back with a man with gold canines and scars all over.

“How did you find me?”

She’d asked the question when she had first woken up but gotten no definite answer. She’d also been hallucinating and hopped up on pain medication so her memory was foggy.

“Remy had a vision.” Linda shudders and something cracks.

“Oh god, Ava-” Horror and understanding washes over her and she struggles to breath. Remy was Ava’s adopted niece and clairvoyant. Remy was also seven years old.

Ava shakes their head as if in disbelief, natural Creole accent emerging.

“I had to call up the boys. Just to get to you. Do you know how scared I was? Remy couldn’t sleep for days, and I didn’t fucking know where you were or when this shit would happen just that it was gonna happen and then I fucking find you ‘cause some cracker in Benin you apparently fucked over started telling stories and you’re just fucking gone and -”

She leans up with real effort to embrace Ava. It hurts but she holds on. Ava is shaking, but there’s no tears. Linda has never seen Ava cry before, it might have broken her own resolve, if they did.

“I’m sorry, Ava. I’m so sorry.” She’s too tired to cry, even with the strong impulse to break down sobbing and despite sleeping for days.

“You should have let me die.” There’s no self-pity in Linda’s voice. She’d known what she was signing up for before everything went down. Erik being many things but never a liar. At least not outright.

Ava doesn’t say anything for a long time. When they do it’s after helping her back on the bed.

“Remy had another vision, while you were under.”

She nods for Ava to continue.

“That man. Him and someone else and some sort of… spaceship.”

She thinks on what Ava’s words could mean. She’d never dug too deep into the specifics of what Wakanda was capable of or what the ultimate goal was besides black liberation. She’d known she was only along for the ride, to be dropped when she became a liability.

“Was I alive in this vision?”

Ava seems to consider their next words, tongue rolling over cracked lips. There’s some fuzz on their mostly bald head and dark circles around their eyes. Major healing always took a lot out of Ava. Linda guesses whatever Ava had to do to bring her back from death’s door probably almost killed them both.

“Yeah. You were in it.”

Ava doesn’t go into more detail, but it’s enough for her. She’s already overstayed her welcome, and a part of her is still chewing on the fact that she’s not dead. Or that when she left this house she’d lose the last piece of family she’s had in years.

She doesn’t ask any more questions, allowing the fatigue that never seemed to go away now take her under once more.

When she wakes up she’s not alone. Remy is sitting on the small bed, feet swinging, with earphones in. Gently, Linda nudges the young girl with her foot. Remy takes out the earphones, brown eyes attentive.

“Ava says I gave you nightmares. I’m sorry.”

Remy doesn’t respond right away and she feels flimsy in her apology. How did you apologize for traumatizing a kid with visions of your death?

“Are you going back?”

Remy signs the words quickly and Linda struggles to respond. Eventually deciding on a simple;

“Yes.”

Remy leans closer as if sharing a secret.

“Good, you should go.”

Linda ignores her own shock after interpreting the young girls signing.

“Did you see something? In a vision?”

She stumbles the word ‘vision’ even as Remy begins to respond with her own signs.

“Kind of. It was weird. You were there.”

She struggles on her next question, as if Ava would walk in any minute and whisk Remy away and berate her some more.

“Is he ok?”

Remy makes a face. “What, your man? Ava hates him.”

Determined now she asks again, more clearly.

“Did he look ok to you, in your vision?”

Remy takes her time before responding.

“I don’t know. He was holding some guy’s hand. Does that count?”

She cycles through a series of emotions before she settles on calm.

“Yeah, it counts. Thanks, Remy.”

Remy nods, then gets off the bed.

“Mom sent me here for a reason though.”

Reflexively she signs back, “You know Ava doesn’t like when you call them that.”

Remy shrugs. Then points to a duffel bag.

“That’s for you. If you’re gonna go, do it before Ava changes their mind.”

Getting out of the bed takes way longer than it would have before being shot but she manages.

When she makes it over to the duffel, she unzips it and her eyes turn to saucers.

There’s enough cash to get her to wherever Erik is and still have some left over to leave for whichever charitable organization was closest to the city she landed in first. There’s also weapons, some survival gear, vests and one of Klaue’s own weird prototypes in the bag. Ava must have raided Erik’s shit after recovering Linda’s body.

“Fuck.” She feels bad immediately after. Remy was mute not deaf.

She turns back to Remy.

“I love you and Ava so much. You know, that right?”

Remy signs back, “Ava hates you right now. Don’t die.”

She laughs, breathless and heavy.

“Did Ava take some for you guys? I can hustle my way out of a paper bag and you’re not exactly cheap, kid.”

Remy signs back quickly, maturity borne from the exposure to awful people like Linda in those oval eyes.

“No, but I took some and put it with James. He’ll make sure Ava doesn’t get us killed with their honorable shit.”

Remy signs the word ‘shit’ twice and Linda feels the returning urge to cry.

“Tell Ava I moved the cash, I love you. I’m not gonna die again. Promise.”


	4. Friends Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! >_< the length of this monster should appease yll some. As always mind the tags. Much love to our lovely beta galaxiaa7  
> Youtube Playlist for while you read, annotated  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLkN48dxVmWBq2UlrOHhQ1C6QaOlSZa_RV  
> Spotify Playlist (start on”Feels Like Summer”)  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1278819366/playlist/3HBJaKZhV03LTjxo7Q9z0N
> 
> Come talk to us!  
> https://writingwakanda.tumblr.com
> 
> From mal: chapter-specific content warnings at the end  
> 

Shuri leaves Efi’s clan home in the afternoon. The timing of her departure is a bit unfortunate because more than a few people come to see her off. Chief among them Efi herself. Shuri thanks the clan home’s matriarch for hosting her and presents her with the token gift her mother had given her for the esteemed mining tribe woman. Then she’s face to face with Efi and everything around them becomes background noise.

“You’ll come again? I hope Auntie’s curry didn’t scare you off.”

Efi teases and Shuri feels so flustered but happy to be so wanted.

“No, of course not. It takes more than some spice to drive me away. Though I should warn you, if you are so welcoming the next time I visit, I may never leave.”

Efi’s laughter emboldens Shuri and before she can lose her resolve, she leans in, ignoring the gathered well-wishers and the clan home matriarch present.

Shuri closes her eyes at the last second, and their lips touch. A part of her freezes after, she hasn’t done a lot of kissing in her very short dating life. But before she can pull away, Efi pulls her closer, thick arms wrapping around her shoulders.

Later, Shuri will feel embarrassed by how much she melts with actual proof that Efi wants her. But in that moment she can’t think beyond the pounding of her heart and the press of their lips, Efi’s body so solid against hers.

When they separate, Shuri hears someone in the crowd whistle and she freezes, reminded once more of their audience. Efi doesn’t seem to mind, her expression pleased.

“Message me when you arrive at the capital?”

Shuri nods and they hug one last time.

She tries not to run up the short distance between the clan home and her passenger vehicle. She hopes no one had been recording her farewell.

Once aboard, she nods to Vi, the Dora Milaje her and her mother contrived to have assigned to her today. Vi smirks back before setting their destination.

They travel in silence. Shuri’s thoughts oscillate between the oh so lovely kiss and the reality of what she is now about to do. If things went according to plan she would be back in the capital in a few hours time. If not... well, it would be in Bast’s hands then.

The two cryogenic tanks, disguised as time-sealed containers, are already loaded onto their small passenger vehicle. All that’s left is navigating to the agreed location without alerting Border Patrol.

The trip is mostly uneventful and Shuri finds herself pondering the unusual situation. James Barnes had been implicated in the murder of her father and then exonerated, but is still a wanted man. As is Captain Rogers and the people with him. Agent Ross, on the other hand, is a foreign intelligence operative, and would under any normal circumstances never have been allowed on Wakandan soil. Except for the fact that Nakia pled that he be healed after he took a bullet, shielding her.

So her brother had allowed not one but two white men into Wakanda within the span of 2 weeks. Perhaps, if her brother was still King, the situation wouldn’t be so serious. But he wasn’t and now the things he had done out of goodwill or supposed necessity were coming back to haunt them all.

Shuri isn’t pleased with the situation. She’d been looking forward to working on the famed “Winter Soldier.” And now she was being asked - or rather the circumstances demanded - to relinquish him, after he had been given to her care. As for Ross, she hadn’t interacted with him beyond a few words before the situation with N’Jadaka had... developed.

Vi has been mostly silent for their trip, leaving Shuri to her thoughts. The Dora hasn’t even teased Shuri for the kiss she so boldly gave, and she probably wanted to, her earlier smirk said as much.

Vi is not one of Shuri’s usual guards, rather one of her mother’s. Which makes sense considering what Shuri is presently doing. Vi’s loyalty to her mother is absolute. None of this would get out, providing things went to plan.

When they arrive at the location, she checks again on both tanks, then confirms the Captain’s estimated arrival time.

Shuri stares for a while at Barnes’ missing arm. She drew some sketches days prior on possible replacements. Now she wouldn’t get to work on any of it.

Pushing thoughts of lost opportunities aside, she sets about getting the two tanks off the ship and into the clearing. The tanks were still masked by a device of her own creation and she begins the process of decoding the resilient and physical disguise off the two canisters.

Shuri sends a video comm request to Captain Rogers once the unmasking process has begun for Ross. When he answers, she’s greeted not just by him but another person. She recognizes Sam Wilson from some of the footage she’s seen of Rogers while on the run. The man is wearing oddly tinted eyewear and outfitted partially in his flying suit.

“Princess Shuri—” The Captain greets her and nods to Vi.

Shuri interrupts him mid-greeting, mind focused on unmasking the camouflaged canisters so she can start defrosting both white men.

“I am sorry for calling you here after we already agreed but my brother is no longer king and Barnes is no longer safe here.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” This time it’s Sam Wilson who speaks.

Shuri looks up from her kimoyo display, in time to see Wilson take off the tinted glasses. His expression is serious.

She is not sure how much she should say, but she needs to make them understand the urgency.

“We have a new King, a stranger to Wakanda. He was a former intelligence operative in your United States who went by the moniker Killmonger. We don’t know what will happen if he finds out about the decisions my brother made as king so we need you to take Barnes and another person out of our borders.”

“Is Bucky alright? What happened to T’Challa?”  
Rogers sounds bewildered but Wilson has an even odder expression.

“Did you say ‘Killmonger’?”

It seems her cousin’s reputation precedes him.

“Yes. Do you know him? My brother is fine, but I can’t say the same for any outsiders in Wakanda right now. You need to leave as soon as they defrost.”

This time Roger seems to parse the information faster.

“We’ll be ready to extract them both as soon as we arrive. But what about T’Challa? What about you?”

Shuri pauses her work on the canisters, halfway done. She has Ross’ canister completely unmasked and the accelerated defrosting process underway. Now she just has to do the same for Barnes. She considers both men through the display comm. How could she condense all the things that had happened into something that would be understandable to outsiders?

“Our cousin, Erik Stevens, challenged T’Challa for the throne. T’Challa accepted his challenge and then yielded to stop him from killing a priest who interfered. So now he is King.”

“Killmonger’s the king of Wakanda?”

Wilson sounds incredulous and Shuri sighs and nods.

“What happened to T’Challa? You said he’s fine.”

Shuri pauses briefly at the concern in the Captain's tone, saying simply,

“The king married him.”

Wilson exclaims, “Wait, what?”

At the same time Rogers asks her, “Will you be fine?”

Shuri starts to answer when Vi calls, “Border Patrol Incoming.”

Then she starts to panic.

“How close are they?” Shuri asks Vi at the same time the Captain asks her, “What’s going on?”

Vi’s response makes Shuri’s heart speed in trepidation.

“They’re moving quickly, less than five minutes away.”

Shuri groans. There was no way the Captain on his much slower aircraft would reach them and carry the two tanks off before Border Patrol arrived. She doesn’t even want to think of what would happen if they were within 10 miles of the clearing and Border Patrol caught wind of them. She knew what they did to outsiders.

“Border Patrol is heading to where we are. You need to turn around now.”

This time she doesn’t get an immediate response and Shuri looks to the canister containing Agent Ross. The unmasking was now complete and the defrosting already past the halfway point.

Her heart sinks even further when she realizes Ross would be waking any second and it would take too long to freeze and mask him. Once Border Patrol arrived he would be exposed and at their mercy.

Shuri’s mind stumbles over the possibility that someone at Efi’s clan home had realized where they were headed or perhaps they had somehow alerted Border Patrol on their way here. They weren’t professional smugglers, after all.

“Princess, we should leave.”

Vi’s expression doesn’t give much away and Shuri’s heart falls at the thought of returning to her mother, mission unfinished. But they had very few options.

“No. We can’t outrun Talon Fighters.”

“We cannot outrun them yes, but your own cloaking will shield us, we don’t need to cross the border.”

Shuri’s mind races at the possibilities. She wishes she’d looked more into how Wakandan smugglers did their business. It had seemed simple enough to her a week ago to sneak past Border Patrol.

“The cloaking is experimental and I don’t think we will be able to get past the defenses on the border to come back in, if we leave now.”

When she turns back to the video comm display, the Captain and Wilson seem engaged in some sort of argument. Wilson is gesturing with his hands and the Captain looks very unhappy.

“Please!” Shuri waits until they stop their conversation and focus once more on her.

“Please, you need to leave, and do not come back unless I or T’Challa tell you to. Border Patrol will easily catch up to you if you come any closer. I will take care of Barnes, I promise.” She carefully does not think about Ross. The man shouldn’t have been brought to her, what had her brother been thinking? 

When the Captain nods, she closes the video comm link then waits. The disguised tank containing James Barnes stands not too far from the one containing Agent Ross and its innocuous appearance taunts her now. What was the point of creating such a useful cloaking device if it took several minutes to activate?

Already she can hear the hum of the oncoming Border Patrol and all too quickly, a Talon Fighter flanked by Dragonflies descend into the clearing. Border Patrol march out and she catches sight of N’Jadaka himself among them. He’s the only one not in uniform, and he’s looking straight at her. They’re all armed. Shuri steps away from the cryo tanks and Vi steps in front of her.

There’s a moment of silence and then her cousin raises one hand calling the assembled Border Patrol to halt.

“Princess! What’s going on here?”

Her cousin strolls forward toward her and the two canisters, a hint of a smile playing on his face.

Shuri is frozen, unable to think of anything to say.

“See, we got word about an unidentified foreign aircraft near the border. W’Kabi thought it was smugglers so I decided to tag along, but then I find you. What type of science are you doing all the way out here?”

Steam is rising from the tank already defrosted, and she watches, belly twisting, as N’Jadaka peers through the window giving him a clear view of Everett Ross.

“Were you trying to smuggle this guy? Outside of Wakanda? Did you have outsiders in Wakanda?”

He sounds unusually loud in the clearing, the accusations undeniable.

Neither Shuri nor Vi answer and the assembled Border Patrol is equally silent. Her cousin’s gaze slides away from them and onto the still camouflaged tank holding Barnes.

“And who’s in this one?” There is no doubt in his inflection. ‘He knows’ repeats in Shuri’s mind as the door to the rapidly warming tank slides open and Agent Ross’s body unceremoniously slides out.

There is no one to catch him and he’s still unconscious and unresponsive: he hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. N’Jadaka turns from Barnes’ tank and approaches Agent Ross’ inert body, peering down at him for a moment. Then he motions to two of the Border Patrol closest to him. They lift Ross off the ground by his armpits, dragging him efficiently towards the Talon Fighter they’d arrived in.

N’Jadaka’s tone brooks no argument when he turns to Shuri and Vi and says, “Ok, I think I’m taking all of you with me.”

They’re both corralled behind the two Patrolmen holding Ross. As they are escorted to the transports, Agent Ross begins to stir from his unconscious state and Shuri hears him ask, slurring, “Wha- happening?”

She can’t help herself from responding then, fear for herself and for the two outsiders now caught in her cousins’ grasp.

“I’m sorry, Ross!”

 

-:- -:-

 

“We shouldn’t have left Bucky.”

Steve’s looking particularly stubborn and Sam fights his own irritation when he answers.

“Two against several trigger happy Wakandans presumably armed with vibranium weapons.”

Steve’s expression doesn’t change and Sam sighs.

“Look, you trusted T’Challa to take care of Bucky right? So you gotta keep trusting him and his sister when they tell you to get out and stay back.”

Steve’s expression finally changes and he asks, “Who’s this Killmonger person?”

Sam thinks about how to answer. He doesn’t know Stevens personally, but he’s certainly heard about the heavily decorated lieutenant and none of it was good. He’d even crossed paths, going in on rescue missions while the man was on his way out. It was never pretty. The man was stone cold and a mercenary trained by the best. And apparently that guy was now king of a whole super advanced African nation.

“Not someone you wanna meet, but here's what I know.”

 

-:- Accompanying track “Paper Love” -:-

"About Agent Ross—"

"We'll come back to him, Princess. First, tell me. Who’s in the other tank?”

Shuri doesn’t look up. They were already in so much trouble, would her silence now incriminate her further? Barnes and Ross had been brought in on T’Challa’s say so. She knows he had good reasons for both, what she didn’t know is whether anyone would want to hear them past the part about not one but two white men being allowed on Wakandan soil.

She opens her mouth to speak and then stops. Her cousin doesn’t seem particularly angry, only amused. Which is a jarring contrast to the serious faces of everyone else.

Her head is still down when she responds, “That would be James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

Her cousin’s expression changes to thoughtful.

“The guy that murdered your dad?”

Shuri answers before she can really think, “He was framed. The real murderer has been found.” Towards the end she falters under N’Jadaka’s stare.

“So what’s he doing here? I thought Wakanda was anti-outsiders.”

Shuri replies hesitantly but truthfully. “He’s broken. The people that had him before, they brainwashed him. I promised to fix him.”

Her cousin tilts his head, as if considering.

“You can do that? Just go in and fix some traumatized soldier’s mind?”

The question surprises her but she recovers quickly.

“Yes. There’s been several prolific cases over the years, different techniques and different mind workers but it can be done.”

“And you would do that. For this white guy?”

N’Jadaka sounds skeptical, and Shuri is reminded of some of the more disparaging comments on her age and accomplishments.

“I am certified in psychological reconditioning. I’ve handled several cases before Barnes. I’m very confident he can be healed.”

Her cousin raises his hands in a placating manner, eyebrow quirked.

“I’m not doubting your abilities Princess, just wondering why of all people, this guy’s who you’re working on.”

Shuri thinks very carefully on her next words.

“His mind profoundly broken. What his captors did to him over the course of so many years? It’s incredible, like no other case I’ve seen or read about before. But it is fixable.”

“Interesting. I’ve read a little bit on what mind workers do, it’s up there isn’t it? With unique vibranium working. Complicated stuff for sure. How’d you get into it?”

N’Jadaka’s curiosity seems genuine and Shuri finds herself opening up about it, speaking with more confidence on her first vocational concentration. When she finally winds down, she sees some of the eyes of Border Patrol sitting nearby appear a bit glazed. N’Jadaka’s in contrast are sharp despite his grin.

“I’ve seen what torture does to a person. And the mental trauma you’re describing. To exponentially decrease the effect of that would be... I don't even have the words.”

Then her cousin goes quiet for a moment, Shuri herself held speechless with his gaze intently on her.

“If I let you start this on Barnes, you have to keep it contained. He’s still a security risk and an outsider. But I wanna be updated on your progress. I’m interested to see what you could accomplish.”

Shuri barely processes the words before she responds exuberantly.

“Yes! Of course! Any findings I make would be available for peer review and containing Barnes is not an issue.”

N’Jadaka nods decisively.

“Okay, then. You can keep your pet project.”

Shuri’s shock wars with her elation. She could keep Barnes? Wasn’t she in trouble? It couldn’t be too much trouble. Not if N’Jadaka is going to let her keep Barnes and wants to see her actual research!

"And Agent Ross?"

" _That_ is more sensitive, why don't you leave that to your brother and me to work out?"

It sounds like a dismissal, and she opens her mouth to speak but N'Jadaka is still speaking. 

"He shouldn't have been your problem in the first place. Whose idea was it anyway, to have you sneaking them across the border?"

Her mother's. But Shuri wasn't saying that aloud. She hadn't been happy about the situation but she had done her best. Now it was out of her hands. 

"You're a scientist, not a smuggler. You have better things to do." 

Privately she agreed but she felt a sense of responsibility for Ross now, after she had gone through the trouble of healing him.

She must still look unconvinced because her cousin tells her, "Don't worry. We just need to debrief him, make sure he won't spill anything about his visit before we send him home."

It _did_ make sense. Her mind goes back to something he said from before,

“You mentioned unique vibranium working earlier. Have you been to the mining and design center at the bottom of the great mound? Most of our best specialists work there.”

Her cousin shakes his head, his grin turning rueful.

“Feels like I should be taking notes, Princess. Tell me more.”

 

-:- Accompanying Track “Arsonist Lullaby” -:-

 

Erik drops the princess off at her lab with a few instructions. He also takes note of the Dora who had accompanied her for her little trip to the border. He would be keeping tabs on her, she obviously wasn’t loyal to him. He debriefs the men and women of Border Patrol on keeping what they saw under wraps and makes a note to have W’Kabi do the same. If this information somehow got out without his say so, he’d know who to blame.

Once he agreed to leave her fugitive alone and gave some vague promises on Ross, the princess had been quite talkative. A lot of it went over his head with the sheer scope but the parts he could follow were really cool. His cousin was a bonafide genius. She was also very young. It’s something he had noted after the challenge and then during the wedding. There is an 18 year age gap between her and T’Challa.

Erik distantly remembers being 17 and too smart for everyone around him. He wonders what he would have been doing at Shuri’s age if he had had the opportunities she had.

One thing is for sure however, the princess is naive. Growing up the way he had hadn’t allowed him such luxuries, but the princess... it’s obvious in how easy he’d been able to win her over. However temporarily. 

Erik had watched, with half his attention, the expressions her Dora Milaje had made once he’d gotten her going. He also now understood why his auntie had been so protective of her daughter during the wedding proceedings. Beyond parental instinct, he knew now that Ramonda was protective of Shuri because she could be turned to see things his way. Especially if he spent some time with her regularly, encouraged her research, kept T’Challa in line, and didn’t kill her pet fugitive.

And Barnes was a pet to her. Important only because of the challenge he posed. Erik liked that. It was an honest reminder of how many Wakandans, past their xenophobia, felt towards the world. If Shuri had showed any real concern for her pet white guy Erik might have applied pressure, taken him along with the CIA agent her brother had apparently allowed in. But she’d been meek as a mouse in the face of his questions. Till he brought up her research anyway. She hadn't even asked about Ross till he had been about to leave her.

“This man is an intelligence operative from another country,” he’d told her, “He’s a risk to Wakanda's security. I’ll keep him with me.”

“He is not.” Shuri replied, emboldened by their recent conversation “My brother can vouch for him.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be speaking to your brother about it.”

 

-:-

 

Now he is back at W’Kabi’s office after an enlightening trip and a windfall of potential leverage. They clasp hands in greeting and then both get seated.

“What was the disturbance about? Our own smugglers, I’m guessing. That region is a grey area they like using. We look the other way sometimes, depending on what they bring in.”

Erik takes in the information and wonders once again about Wakanda’s conditional xenophobia.

“Nah. Not smugglers. You know, I think I’ll show you.”

W’Kabi raises an eyebrow in question and Erik makes to call his dear husband.

“Just stay outta sight till our conversation’s over.”

W’Kabi nods and moves away from the range of view of Erik’s kimoyo beads.

When T’Challa finally answers, Erik is greeted brusquely by the man’s avatar.

“Good afternoon, Erik.”

T’Challa looks less than pleased to see him, but Erik doesn’t care. This was mainly for W’Kabi’s benefit, but it would be interesting to see how his cousin would defend his decisions.

“Good afternoon, T’Challa. I hope the day’s been treating you well?”

Feeling a little giddy, he continues, “There was a disturbance at the border some hours ago. Unidentified aircraft. Would you happen to know anything about it?”

T’Challa’s expression, already less than pleased, goes totally blank and Erik smiles wider in response.

“Cause I do. And I have a few questions on what type of things you had going on before I came along.”

Out of the corner of his eye Erik watches W’Kabi’s expression. The man’s gaze was attentive. Waiting for whatever Erik would reveal.

“See, I found your sister loitering out at the border today, and before I arrived an unidentified non-Wakandan aircraft approaching the border, heading straight for where she was, turned around and ran in the other direction.”

Erik waits, giving T’Challa room to respond. When he doesn’t, Erik continues.

“T’Challa, why was your sister trying to smuggle two white men out of the country?”

Erik doesn’t miss the sharp movement of W’Kabi reacting to this information.

“Where is Shuri now?”

Erik notes, with savor, the edge of panic in his cousin’s voice.

“Why would I do anything to Shuri? I’m a man of my word. Now you, on the other hand, I’m beginning to have some doubts.”

“Put Shuri on the call now.”

Erik sighs, suddenly bored with T’Challa’s concern.

“The princess is at her lab now, I dropped her there myself.”

Naturally, that’s when T’Challa’s kimoyo beads chime indicating an incoming call.

“Don’t answer that,” Erik warns, sharply. “You end this call and I won’t give you any more chances to explain yourself.”

From the obvious conflict in T’Challa’s expression Erik guesses it’s either Shuri or his mother. Grimacing, T’Challa dismisses the call. Erik nods his approval and asks again.

“You mind telling me why you’re harboring a former fugitive and a CIA agent?”

He supposes he is curious as to how all this happened. Though he knows it doesn’t matter. W’Kabi’s current expression of disgusted outrage says it all.

“Those men were contained. Neither pose any risk to Wakanda’s security or safety.”

That doesn’t answer his question at all, but it certainly sounds suspect.

“I dunno, I think having a foreign Intelligence operative is a pretty big no no for you guys. On top of bringing anyone in that didn’t go through your robust asylum-seeking appeal process.”

He can’t help but joke by the end. After all the shit T’Challa had told him about immigration procedure and he had apparently been allowing non-Wakandans into the country on a whim. With all the hoopla around Erik’s arrival and whether or not he should even be allowed to stay let alone challenge for kingship, his do-goodie cousin had allowed not one but two fucking white men into Wakanda, one a member of the American Intelligence apparatus, and presumably only a few people even knew about it.

“So who was your sister trying to pass them on to? I have a few guesses but it’d be nice to know for sure who you’ve been consorting with.”

T’Challa doesn’t respond and Erik sighs.

“Considering all the news surrounding your dad’s assassination, I’m guessing one of the people on that unidentified aircraft was Rogers? ‘Captain America?’ Not much of a Captain now that’s he’s a wanted man.”

T’Challa doesn’t confirm or deny, but Erik takes his non-answer as the admission it is. It didn’t really matter now, he had two men in custody and the potential for much more.

“Your sister told me a bit about Barnes, but what’s Agent Ross doing here? Besides scoping out the place?”

Erik knows whatever T’Challa says is gonna be actual bullshit. He turns a little to focus on W’Kabi again. The man looks like someone who’s definitely thinking through the implications of what he’s hearing, his mouth twisted in distaste.

“Look, I’m sure you have a great reason for letting these two white men in and keeping it secret. I bet we could even test that reasoning with the council and the Wakandan public but something tells me, it won’t go over very well.”

Understatement. Maybe T’Challa would have gotten away with this as king, explained his reasoning with an extra dose of goodwill. Or kept it a nice little secret, using his authority to enforce that secrecy on any who found out. Now, well. Things were different.

Finally, T’Challa answers, “You are not blameless here. Agent Ross was brought here for medical treatment after he took one of the bullets you shot in Busan, when you stole Klaue from our custody.”

This is news to Erik and he places the new piece of information into the jigsaw of knowledge surrounding the situation.

“So, how does that translate to bringing him into the country? Pretty sure one less CIA agent kicking around is good for Wakanda.”

“He took the bullet for one of our own War Dogs. Healing him was a matter of honor.”

Erik’s eyebrows rise at that. W’Kabi looks like he isn’t convinced and neither is Erik.

“I’m sure if you explained this all to everyone else they’d totally understand. Along with whatever reason you let a former fugitive in for an extended stay in a cryogenic tube.”

He knew more about that situation and it was honestly amusing. Foreign born Wakandan kids couldn’t get into the country despite being no real threat and related to or adopted by actual Wakandan citizens; meanwhile, T’Challa was running a halfway house for CIA agents and international assassins.

Erik lets the silence stretch, waiting for any more gems from his dear husband.

Then he gets an idea.

Eventually T’Challa, if he hadn’t already, would realize they both had something to lose if this came to light. All the bad business with their dads obviously didn’t end there. Bad decisions definitely run in the family. Threatening T’Challa with engaging Wakanda’s xenophobia was a double-edged sword. Erik could already see the regular outsider hate mobilizing against him, ‘lost prince’ or no. But if they were going down, they were going down together. That, he would make sure of.

“You know, this doesn’t have to come out. No one who doesn’t already know needs to. We could keep this all in the family.”

T’Challa doesn’t respond at first. Erik isn’t surprised, the older man is at a disadvantage here and they both know it. They hadn’t actually agreed on anything during their negotiation at the honeymoon suites besides him not touching T’Challa, them not killing each other, and Erik not harming Shuri or his aunt. Now Erik could ask for more.

T’Challa finally asks, obviously hesitant, “What will you do with Barnes and Agent Ross?”

Erik makes a show of considering. “It would be best to kill them, wouldn’t it? But you let them in the country for a reason. So what will you give me, for their lives?”

This time, while waiting for T’Challa to respond, Erik makes as if to stretch and turns to see W’Kabi fully. The man looks... Erik keeps the same expression but if he could have he would have laughed.

When Erik first met the Border Tribesman, W’Kabi had been suspicious but curious. About how he’d gotten Klaue, about who Erik was, about what his intentions were. Now, after a successful challenge, wedding, council meeting and then this discovery? Erik could practically see the gears turning in W’Kabi’s head. W'Kabi was his.

Whatever misgivings W’Kabi has for Erik, they couldn’t stand against the contempt Erik now sees in his eyes for T’Challa. Good.

“Hmm, let me make it easy for you. We’ll go item by item here. If I don’t go to the council about what your sister tried to do today, I want you to...”

He pretends to think about it but he already knows what he wants, at least partially.

T’Challa had been intensely passive aggressive the past few days. It was annoying but besides that, it was costing Erik time. Why read a whole database entry or several books on some random Wakandan factoid when he had a whole encyclopedia of knowledge with him all the time?

“Play nice. If I ask you a question about daily living or why the River Tribe gets 3 more hubs than everyone else, you answer me fully and honestly. No more obtuse, minimal answers; you know what I need to know. We’re a team now.”

“What of Barnes and Ross? Where are they now?”

“Gotta agree to the first terms first. Keeping what your sister did today hush hush is one thing. Their lives and the secrecy of your involvement is another.”

“Fine. I agree to ‘play nice’ within reason. I will try to answer your questions to the best of my ability. Now, where are they? How do I know you haven’t killed them already?”

Erik shrugs. “I was kinda looking forward to parading them in front of the council. See their reactions. But I could do that with their dead bodies, too.”

“What did you do with them?”

“Spar with me. At least once a week.”

At that, T’Challa looks taken aback. He may as well have scoffed when he finally says, “If my schedule permits.”

“We’ll make the time work. Barnes is with your sister and Ross is detained. They weren’t dead the last time I saw them.”

He thinks back to an asylum plea he’d read through two days before.

“Join the foreign affairs sub-committee.”

T’Challa looks confused now and Erik loves it. There were a few ways T’Challa being on the committee would play out but based on who his cousin is revealing himself to be - despite his insulting words from yesterday - and any of those ways would turn in Erik’s favor.

“This is to keep the little charity you’ve got going on here under wraps. Your sister was only covering your ass today, but the mess she was trying to sweep away was yours. I’m not asking you to vote a certain way, do however you like, just be on the committee. Agree, and your questionable asylum choices won’t become a matter of public record.”

T’Challa clenches his jaw. “That is agreeable. Now: I promised Barnes we would help him. He is not a security risk.”

“And we still can. If...”

Erik lets his words trail off and watches the way T’Challa’s throat moves. Waiting. His husband hadn’t mentioned Ross here. Had caught on to Erik's item-by-item approach to their negotiating. Bad move. Ross’s presence really is unacceptable. The man needed to go, regardless of whatever goodwill he’d inspired in T’Challa. Erik hadn’t spent years with the CIA to let one of their own operatives live to tell the story on his own fucking territory. And now, from the accident of T'Challa's wording, Erik could secure what he wanted most from his husband for Barnes' safety before T'Challa found out he couldn't also barter for Ross.

“You give me time. In our bedroom. No conditions, no reservations. No holds barred. I get you alone and you only say yes. 2 hours.”

T’Challa looks like he’s bit on something sour and Erik lets himself relax. He’s already promised the princess to leave her pet fugitive alone but T’Challa doesn’t know that and, well, if they couldn’t agree Erik could recover said pet fugitive easily enough. Put him in the ground. Give the princess some life lessons.

Then his cousin surprises him for the first time during their conversation.

“10 minutes.”

Erik can’t help but laugh. Fuck, his cousin was haggling with him! He’s amused enough to let it stand.

“90 minutes.”

“15 minutes.”

Erik catches W’Kabi’s eyes and he smirks. That curious look was back. Admittedly, this part of their negotiation wasn’t something Erik had intended to show W’Kabi.

“One hour.”

“20 minutes.”

Erik thinks about it.

“30 minutes and I leave Barnes for your sister.”

T’Challa gets that pinched look and Erik waits.

“Okay. 40 minutes and you do not hurt Agent Ross either.”

This time Erik shakes his head.

“Nah, I think I’ll take the 30 minutes and do what I want with Ross.”

T’Challa frowns and the tick in his brow is back.

“An hour. For both Ross’ and Barnes’ safety.”

Erik bares his teeth, savoring this feeling. “30 minutes for Barnes. No promises for Ross. Take it or leave it and if you leave it I’m taking Barnes, too.”

T'Challa's jaw flexes. Erik can see him struggling with himself. Then he meets Erik’s eyes and agrees. The bitterness in his voice makes Erik smile a bit brighter.

After ending the call, Erik crosses his arms, leans back for a moment, then turns to W’Kabi. Even if he hadn't been able to negotiate so much, this conversation would have been worth it just to see the Border Tribesman’s growing antipathy for T'Challa and growing esteem for him.

“So, about your men. You mind talking to them, about keeping what they saw today to themselves? I’ve debriefed them but given the situation, extra enforcement would be best.”

W’Kabi smiles and nods.

 

-:- -:-

 

Everett regains consciousness quickly. He had definitely been drugged because he feels what he can only assume are the lingering effects and he’s wet from cold sweat. His arms hurt and he has mud on his clothes.

When he tries to get up he finds that his movements are restricted to the wall he’d been leaning on. A thin, dark wire connects his left wrist to the wall with no obvious break points. When he tugs on the wire there is absolutely no give. Vibranium.

He settles back down on the low bench adjacent to the wall. Something was definitely wrong, things had not gone to plan. He is someone’s prisoner.

He tries to think. The last things he can remember were that he had told T’Challa about Stevens, T’Challa and his sister had gone to the throne room where Stevens was being brought. Then ...Nakia? Had suddenly come for him, that they had to go, but Ross couldn’t quite remember why. He remembers he had to leave, they wanted to get him out of the country, and put him under to do so, but he doesn’t remember them administering anything, or what specifically they had intended, or why it was both necessary and urgent. His mind can easily speculate and turns up nothing good.

He closes his eyes and waits.

He hears a quiet ‘sssh’ noise some indefinite time later, like a door sliding open and then closed. He hears steps coming closer. When the steps stop he opens his eyes.

Erik Stevens stares back.

Ross opens his mouth then closes it. The word ‘fuck’ plays on repeat in his mind.

Stevens is no longer wearing the non-issue mercenary garb he had been wearing on the holographic footage Everett watched however long ago. Now he’s dressed in what Everett assumes to be Wakandan high fashion. An Afro-futuristic mix of odd textiles in vivid dark colors.

‘They sow it into their clothing,’ Klaue’s words in Busan come to him again. He’s starting to feel a bit sick.

He licks chapped lips and greets the former agent.

“Stevens. Long way from Afghanistan.”

Stevens doesn’t react and Everett waits. It’d been years since they met in person and he had only ever visited the Middle East on short trips. Stevens had not only served multiple tours there--among other regions--but stayed after his deployment ended.

When Stevens finally speaks, it turns Everett’s blood cold.

“That bullet you took, in Busan. The reason you’re here. You realize that was me, right?”

He hadn’t made that particular connection just yet.

“You also realize the person you took it for. She would have been just fine.”

Everett also hadn’t made that realization yet either, but of course the information was all there. His actions in Busan had been instinctual, simply autopilot to get down and away from fire while taking the closest person with him. But in this case such heroism had been unnecessary. In the face of... the kind of medical technology that would have healed her as easily as it had him. If she would have even needed medical attention, with clothing reinforced by vibranium.

An actual country filled with vibranium. Such a country now presumably destabilized by a man nicknamed ‘Killmonger.’

He didn’t know what the situation was with T’Challa or Shuri or any of the other Wakandans he’d interacted with previously but he was now chained to a wall, in a foreign country and only being spoken to by a former CIA operative. He would assume the worst and go from there.

Everett switches gears.

“A man at my level in the international intelligence community would be useful to someone in your position.”

Stevens smiles at that.

“That may be true. Do you even know what ‘my position’ is, now? I’m not just king of Wakanda. No, you’re looking at the ruler of the future Pan-continental Wakandan Empire.”

Everett’s stomach turns at the casual use of the word “King,” and that only gets worse as Stevens keeps talking. He does the math. Stops, tries again.

“Empire is a strong word.”

Stevens smirks and gestures, blasé. Everett notices a slight artificial glow from one of the beads around Stevens’ wrist.

“It’s an accurate one.”

Because Everett obviously has nothing but time till Stevens does what he will, he says, “Somehow I don’t think anyone’s going to let some secret African nation become an empire.”

Stevens snorts and tilts his head.

“Half the world’s economy is supported by exploiting key countries on this continent alone. What do you think will happen when they can’t anymore?”

Ross parses the information and immediately thinks oil. But then he also thinks about copper, diamonds and, oh God, rare earth minerals. Let alone coffee. He still had some Ethiopian coffee from his last visit to the continent.

“So what, you’re going to march into regions that we can barely control and tell them to follow someone from a country they’ve never even heard of?”

Stevens chuckles, “You’ve got jokes, huh?”

He makes another gesture and this time a display appears. It startles Everett a bit. He’s seen T’Challa and Shuri do similar things but seeing Stevens, a former soldier and operative, using the same tech with obvious familiarity and understanding, it’s scarier somehow. He doesn’t get how anything in this strange country functions. How odd sign language translated to commands that control not just whatever Stevens was wearing on his wrist but their entire environment.

“What would happen if those mines down in DRC stopped. As in the country stopped exporting, stopped selling and outside business got put out.”

Everett considers the question.

“They can’t just stop the export, they need the money it brings. That’s people’s survival.”

Stevens shakes his head and some diagrams and pictures appear on the display between them.

“It is.”

He pulls up something else and Ross starts to recognize names. Some from the international commerce bureau and some from the UN’s own African Committee.

“So let’s say... some of these mines get bought out. Then that buyer ends trade agreements with China and a couple others. Maybe some close down, maybe some stay open but only trade locally. Then all sorts of infrastructure projects and social programs happen to pop up. What happens when people can regularly get the basic things they need? They get interested in how shit’s being run.”

Various news outlet reports on fraudulent elections and rioting mobs flash on the display.

“People start to demand better from their governance. Opportunistic expats get expelled. The local highwaymen find they aren’t welcome anymore. Suddenly all those radicals who talked about fair wages and not making shady deals with countries like the U.K. get elected. Then they actually renege on some of those shady deals that's already been made.”

That sick feeling is back and Everett watches the diagrams cycle as Stevens speaks. It all sounds hypothetical but already he knows, the same way he knows he probably won’t get out of this without some serious promises.

He’d only caught a glimpse of Wakanda through the windows of the lab he’d woken in, but what he’s seen is amazing. How did one hide a whole African country? How did they get so advanced? And he could only imagine what type of technology they had if they could heal a spinal injury that should have been fatal. How rich was Wakanda? What type of weapons did they have? They couldn’t have spent all this time just studying medicine.

In light of all that, supporting a small third world country till its own inhabitants pushed out foreign interest was probably small change.

Supporting a country like the DRC and inserting your own agents and puppets into leadership positions is probably even easier.

Stevens continues, “Now imagine that happens again and again. Different regions, same takedown. Oil, minerals, raw materials, cobalt. Now that doesn’t mean they stop exporting entirely... no.”

Another diagram for rising oil prices, in part due to increases uniformly across sellers in the Middle East.

“That just means it’s more expensive. For everyone else.”

If Wakanda could shorten the world’s supply of lithium or cobalt without them catching on soon enough it would double the cost of electronics. Which would cripple multiple arms of the world economy.

And that’s not even considering oil.

This plan, it could work. It _would_ work. Even with the few details he had been given of what would have to be a massively complex undertaking, he could already extrapolate the rest. The world’s economy depended on regions in which they had nearly unlimited access to criminally cheap resources and labor. And it would collapse if that access was throttled. In turn, nation after nation could be made vulnerable enough in such a situation to be conquered in one form or another.

Everett knew the economic and political fine details better than most, and could easily imagine how it would unfold. He knew Stevens could as well, from his education and his experience. Both of which he’d received partly at the hands of the United States government. He would know exactly which strings to pull, and he certainly had the resources now to pull them. Killmonger could and would succeed.

But surely someone would notice, would put it together and raise some alarm.

“They aren’t just going to allow you to do that.”

Stevens smiles.

“The thing about that: if you have enough vibranium, it’s not a matter of being allowed to do anything.”

Everett wants to deny the statement but he’s honestly at a loss. What vibranium could do, what Wakanda was capable of. The world didn’t know it. And it very likely wouldn’t. Not until it was too late. With Stevens’ training and Wakanda’s vibranium… What they couldn’t achieve ‘peacefully’ through potentially devastating market manipulation, they could very possibly achieve militarily.

As floored with this information as he is, Everett is just as overwhelmed with an urgency to get this information out. He has to get this information out. To the US, its allies, anyone in the intelligence community. He had realized his own survival was unlikely as soon as he opened his eyes to king Killmonger, but now he is desperate to maneuver a way to live even just long enough to get the word out.

“So? What do you think about that?”

Everett’s mind is racing to try and poke some kind of hole in this plan, but he _couldn’t find any_. Mouth dry, he swallows and licks his lips. “That’s a... pretty solid plan you have there.”

“I was trained by the best.” He had been. The CIA had an unfortunate history of training future enemies.

“And when you- when Wakanda rules the world, what then? You really think everyone is going to go along with that?”

“No.” he says lightly, shrugging. “Some will have to die. Some of the imperialists. Their children. Those who fight with them.”

Everett reels, eyes wide and seeing nothing, “Oh my god. That’s mass murder.”

“Well, … yeah.”

Stevens gestures, and the display disappears. He takes a step closer and Everett lets his rising panic show by leaning away.

“Look, I could help you.”

“I don’t think you understand. I don’t need you.” Stevens is so calm. Everett’s heart is beating like a jackrabbit, and Stevens looks so calm.

It occurs to Everett, Killmonger would only tell him all of this for one of two reasons. One: he needs something from Everett, like information or access that required Everett to know these details, after which Stevens would probably kill him. Or, two: because he was gloating, didn’t need anything from Everett, and was just going to kill him anyway.

That’s when Ross also realizes there’s no bargaining with this man, no manipulating him, no talking him into or out of anything. And that’s when Ross breaks. He’s done. All desperation leaves him, and he lets the tension in his body go.

He looks back up at Stevens and asks, calmly and seriously, “What do you want from me?”

Stevens’ eyes gleam.

“I just got it. I’ve never been able to talk freely about all this, without the hypothetical. To someone who knows the players and the stakes involved like I do.”

The former operative looks almost gleeful. Everett can see Stevens is clearly savoring the moment.

“I finally got to tell my plans to someone who understands.”

And Ross does understand, and it’s terrifying.

“It feels good.”

Then Stevens pulls out a gun, points it at Everett’s head, and fires.

 

-:- Outside the interrogation room -:-

 

Smirking, and bearing almost no blood splatter - he was an expert, after all - Erik hands off Ross’ weapon to the guard at attention outside the holding cell.

“Incinerate this, along with all the rest of the effects we found with him. And the body, too.”

The guard nods in acknowledgment and walks away. Erik watches the retreating figure with a smile on his lips.

A CIA agent killed with his own weapon. Just like the entire agency, the entire system, would be destroyed by theirs.

 

-:- Accompanying Track “Showbiz Instrumental” -:-

 

T’Challa returns to the Kings’ quarters late in the evening. He had gone in search of Shuri immediately after his negotiation with Erik and the conversation that followed had been enlightening.

Shuri had been the one ringing at the beginning of his call with Erik. Immediately after their call he had called her back and what she’d told him, his mother in the background, hadn’t reassured him at all. Apparently Erik had already promised her Barnes would remain unharmed, and he had indeed taken Ross into custody. T’Challa knew this information didn’t change anything, Erik could have taken Barnes into custody as well no matter his promise to Shuri, but he still feels like he’s been played. As if he has failed.

He oscillates between anger at himself for agreeing to anything and fear for what is to come. Erik knows too much. Maybe not everything, but enough to make life very hard for everyone involved.

T’Challa had been especially careful to leave Nakia’s name out but he isn’t sure Erik hasn’t already guessed her involvement. It certainly wouldn't be difficult to deduce.

The man in question hasn’t arrived yet and T’Challa takes a moment to summon his resolve. The negotiation, if anything, has bought him time. Time to manage and contain the situation. Time for things to go back to how they should be. It has also given his husband time. With him.

T’Challa had done his best given the situation. Rogers, Wilson, and Barnes were safe. His sister and his legacy as king were safe. Whatever transpired tonight, he would endure.

And it was only 30 minutes. What could happen in 30 minutes?

As if prompted, his own mind provides gut-churning answers, concocted out of the memories of their wedding night and nightmarish dreams he’s had since. _“Keep on screamin', kitten, ain't nobody gonna help you— i'mma kill any motherfucker who even tries—“_ He knows all too well a kaleidoscope of options Erik could choose from that would fit in just 30 minutes.

Then his husband enters the room and T’Challa’s heart freezes.

The man is whistling. When he catches sight of T’Challa he pauses.

“Why the long face? If you wanna back out of our arrangement, you still can.”

“No. Our arrangement still stands.” The words practically fall out of his mouth. 

Erik shrugs, “Okay. Then don’t look so down. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” Erik’s smirk taunts him.

“When does the time start?” T’Challa asks, resolute.

“I’m gonna wash off the day. You can too, if you want. Then we’ll start.”

Erik heads for the bathing area, whistling once more, but T’Challa doesn’t move. T’Challa would not make this easier for Erik by undressing before the 30 minutes started. If Erik wants T’Challa freshly bathed he could use up some of his 30 minutes for it.

Of course, this left him alone with his thoughts…

His husband had said many things on their wedding night. Things he wanted to do in the future. T’Challa wonders which one of those things would be happening tonight.

_“I’ll be gentle,”_

Suddenly T’Challa feels the ghost of the impulse to flee that he had felt throughout that night. That he had even acted on a few times, pointlessly. He reminds himself that he has agreed to the terms of their negotiation. He would give Erik 30 minutes of his time, of access to his person, for whatever Erik had in mind. For the sake of the people he promised to protect, for them he would endure. Whatever Erik wanted, T’Challa would do it, or let it happen, and he would endure.

 _”I’ll be gentle,”_ his husband had said, and those words had been a mockery.

T’Challa can still see the malicious smirk his cousin wore as he taunted T’Challa with his own body’s responses.

_“Damn cuz, so fucking wet for me.”_

_”Yeah, just let it happen. Just go with it.”_

_”You make such pretty noises.”_

The memories send chills down T’Challa’s arms, down his spine.

_“You like that? I'mma show you just how good it is— don't give a fuck if you let me.”_

He is struck again, more sharply, by the impulse to flee. But he knows he has to go through this, he has been raised to be a king and whatever Erik did to him, he would endure.

_At one point, Erik stops what he’s doing to T’Challa and T’Challa moans at the loss. Then he moans again, internally, not in need but despair. How could he forget even for a moment he didn’t want this?_

His stomach is starting to churn, twisted like sheets.

_Erik seemed to know what T’Challa was thinking, but instead of responding with compassion, he merely shushed him and told him, “Don’t think too hard, just feel. Lemme take care of you.”_

And Bast help him, he had just let him.

_“It’s happening anyway, just go along with the ride.”_

He is distantly aware his breathing is becoming shallow and uneven.

_Erik’s hands stroke T’Challa inside and out, overwhelming him with sensations, none of them welcome, mercilessly bringing him toward climax as tears stream down his face._

Moisture pricks his eyes. The foul mixture of arousal and nausea T’Challa had felt then is suddenly with him now. The confusion of his senses, of his body ‘liking’ something that was so repulsive, is just as incomprehensible now as it was then. This incomprehension is an entity unto itself, so strong it is a flavor in his mouth.

_“This is all you're ever gonna be good for now. My fucking cum dump.”_

T’Challa remembers, vividly, the moment he had realized it was going to keep happening, and that he would never be safe as long as his cousin was king.

_I'm ya king now, cuz. I own you. You're mine."_

Intellectually, T'Challa knows Erik is still in the bathroom, he can hear his whistling, muted, drifting from the other room; but he also has the creeping sensation that Erik is next to him, whispering those words in his ear. He can practically feel Erik's breath on his neck.

He feels electrified now with the urge to get away. The urge is stronger even than it was at any point last time, but it is as if he is rooted to the floor. He’s not sure he could move if he wanted to.

More and more sensations from that evening come through as though they’re happening to him now. He can feel it on his skin just as clearly as he can hear it in his ear. A hand is brushing down his side, is squeezing his neck, is gripping his cock.

T’Challa’s nausea increases as memories continue to wash over him, unbidden. They are too vivid, and he can’t seem to make them stop.

 

T’Challa doesn’t know how much time has passed when Erik returns, towel wrapped around his waist and looking as cheerful as before. When he takes in T’Challa, still standing stiffly in the same spot, Erik half-grins, amused.

“You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad. Why so tense? You know I'll show you a good time.”

_“This doesn’t have to hurt. I could make it good for you.”_

Another wave of nausea turns in his stomach. T’Challa is frozen to the spot, can hardly move, but he manages to turn his head and meet Erik’s gaze directly. He will endure. This is what needs to be done. The precise details of why are becoming less immediate, but he knows he will face this, whatever happens.

Erik rolls his eyes as if T’Challa’s trepidation isn’t deeply well founded and makes a gesture that throws a projection of a timer high in the air. It starts counting down from 30 minutes.

T’Challa watches the seconds tick for a long moment, then turns to look at Erik.

Erik lets his playfulness give way to seriousness, lifts his chin, and says without inflection, “Take your clothes off.”

T’Challa sighs, expecting as much. He summons himself and through sheer willpower forces himself to move. Stomach in knots, he begins to undress. As he does, his cousin goes to the bed and pulls all the covers down to the floor. T’Challa tries in vain to reign in his thoughts, to not picture anything that had happened on that bed the first night they had shared it.

_“Wanna make you scream."_

And T’Challa _had_ screamed, and sobbed, and moaned. His cousin had taken everything he had wanted from him, and now T’Challa had given him the opportunity to do it again.

 _“I’ll come all over your face next time.”_ And this was the next time.  _“I’ll even let you choke on my dick first.”_

“Come lie down.”

T’Challa is startled out of the vivid replay of Erik’s voice from that night by the sound of Erik’s voice now. He takes off the last piece of clothing, feeling more aware of his nudity than all the days since the honeymoon when they’d reached that tepid truce.

Erik, patient, gestures again to the bed, “Face down.”

T’Challa summons his resolve once more, draws his shoulders back, stands tall, and walks to the bed. He lays down, head turned toward the side where Erik now stands. T’Challa puts his arms to his sides and watches the timer hanging in the air.

Erik shifts, and T’Challa is suddenly very aware of Erik’s presence by his side. His cousin lets the towel drop and T’Challa’s stomach drops with it. Erik walks away toward the foot of the bed and, distressingly, out of T’Challa’s line of sight. T’Challa decides to stay where he is rather than turn his head to track Erik. He doesn’t know how much explicit obedience Erik expects from him and doesn’t want to risk throwing away their agreement because he violated the direct order to lie down.

T’Challa can hear rustling at their dresser and tenses. Erik could have placed something in there for a moment like this. T’Challa had gained an uneasy confidence over the past week, night after night of sleeping beside each other without Erik so much as touching him in their quarters. Living up to what they’d agreed at the honeymoon. Now that confidence is gone, it had evaporated some time since the moment T’Challa came to the bedroom. Erik would certainly be touching him tonight. He could even require T'Challa to touch him, and T’Challa would do it.

He could feel the ghost sensations of Erik touching him last time as he waited, exposed. Far too exposed.

Erik’s footsteps head off toward the bathing area briefly, then return to the side of the bed. T’Challa can see from the corner of his eye, Erik is now wearing light, loose pants. He is holding something in his hands -- lubricant? T’Challa can only imagine -- but immediately leans over T’Challa and puts it down somewhere on the bed where he can’t see.

Before T’Challa can wonder what happens next, Erik is touching him. Hands are on his shoulders, pulling him up. He moves to put his hands under him but everything is happening too quickly: Erik places several pillows under T’Challa’s chest and lowers him back down, torso now elevated. Erik puts another under T’Challa’s forehead so he can look straight down with his face still an inch over the bed.

T’Challa moves his arms to place them back by his sides, but Erik must think he’s moving to push himself up because he places a hand lightly between T’Challa’s shoulder blades and says, “Just stay here. Adjust yourself until you’re comfortable, but you’re just gonna lie here.”

T’Challa doesn’t move and doesn’t want to think about what that could mean. He waits for Erik to climb onto the bed with him. The endless replay of memories continues in his mind’s eye. Still standing, Erik reaches back over T’Challa, presumably to get whatever he put down, but then T’Challa feels the warmth and moisture of a damp towel lain across his back.

Erik presses the towel down, and then drags it across his back. He was washing T’Challa’s back. The towel travels around T’Challa’s sides to where his skin met the sheets, as high up onto his neck as his hairline, and as far down as the top of his buttocks. At that he tenses, which prompts Erik to murmur, “Easy.”

T’Challa would be taking nothing easy. The vivid memories of Erik touching him before had only receded because of the more vivid reality of Erik touching him now.

The towel is drawn away and then the hands return to their former position, but this time directly on T’Challa’s back. The sensation of skin on skin is invasive, even though Erik is touching him lightly, rubbing circles into his shoulders.

There’s a pause, then another change in sensation: lotion. Erik spreads it liberally on T’Challa’s back, across all of the area he had washed. When Erik’s hands go lower, spreading lotion across his lower back, T’Challa tenses up again, but Erik merely swipes over the top of his buttocks briefly again and then moves on.

After a minute T’Challa realizes Erik has returned to his shoulders and is lingering there. He isn’t just lightly rubbing this time, though, he’s digging into the muscles. T’Challa expects, any second, for it to stop, but the seconds stretch and the massage continues. T’Challa doesn’t know what to think.

When Erik pauses, in what turns out to be putting more lotion on his hands, T’Challa thinks, this must be Erik’s way of justifying to himself what he is surely about to do, some twisted attempt at foreplay or seduction. Soon, T’Challa knows, Erik’s hands will drift lower, then grab his ass. He could practically feel it already. Grabbing, groping, probing. The feeling of being penetrated is so vivid from last time T’Challa feels tears prick his eyes. The fingers inside him, the hand around him, the tears streaming down his face, the anguish roiling in his stomach: it feels like it’s happening now.

When, only moments after he stopped, Erik continues, the feeling of actual contact only on his shoulders banishes the phantom sensations on T’Challa’s nether regions and the resulting relief is so strong it helps settle his gut. He tries to take long deep breaths to slow his heartbeat and gain control of himself.

“That’s right,” Erik says, “Take it easy. I’m just giving you a massage, nothing you need to get worked up about.”

T’Challa reflexively tenses; he doesn’t believe Erik. He has him at his mercy. After last time, why wouldn’t he use him sexually?

“Hey, now,” Erik says, feeling T’Challa tense up, “I mean it, relax. I’m just gonna give you a massage, work on the knots in your back, that’s all.”

T’Challa doesn’t respond. He just wants it to be over.

Erik's motions get increasingly intense as he circles his thumbs, then grinds his knuckles, then digs his elbow into various places in T'Challa's back. It is jarringly mundane for T'Challa to realize he is sore not just where Erik is working, but all over his back and all over his body. In fact, T'Challa is having a hard time thinking of the last time he remembers being so completely sore everywhere.

Some moments later, T’Challa finds himself staring at the projected timer without really seeing it, but when he registers that several minutes had passed he realizes that all Erik has done in that time was actually massage his shoulders and back. T’Challa doesn’t know what to do with this information other than distrust it and try to keep himself distant from the undeniably positive sensations of his back being massaged.

At some point Erik works firmly on a particular knot behind T’Challa’s shoulder blade and it feels good enough that T’Challa can’t suppress his breathing hitching in response.

“That’s right, relax, you need this.”

_“That’s right, just feel it. Let it happen._

Again, T’Challa’s reflex is to tense up, reject the words, even get up and run. He suppresses the response even as he scoffs internally at the blithe suggestion. He could imagine all too well the next thing Erik would be saying he needs. In the meantime, he resolves to put more effort into stifling any audible response to the massage.

_“Don’t get shy on me now, you were making such pretty noises.”_

He would not be giving Erik that satisfaction this time.

The massage has effectively stopped his thoughts from devolving into graphic replay of that night. Erik’s hands ground him in the present. The memories are still very present, but the thoughts are less vivid across his senses. T'Challa waits for Erik's hands to move south.

After a few more minutes Erik has worked up to really digging into T’Challa’s back. The action makes his breathing strained as he just feels it. It’s intense- his back is far more knotted than he would have guessed and Erik is certainly strong enough to really dig in. The sensations consume more and more of T’Challa’s attention until he can think of almost nothing else.

“You’re too tense,” Erik says after a while. “You don’t have the herb anymore. Not just the strength, the resilience. You gotta take care of yourself.”

Through the increasingly pleasurable sensations of the massage, T’Challa again scoffs at Erik’s words. What would he know of the care T’Challa had taken with himself, as a warrior and as a prince, his entire life? And if T’Challa had been tense since losing the healing properties of the heart-shaped herb, whose fault was it?

Erik continues massaging T’Challa’s back, finding a new knot and digging into it deeply before moving on to another. T’Challa finds himself holding his breath at the intensity in some moments, then feeling a wash of relief when the knot gives.

“When we spar, you won’t have the recovery you’ve been used to. You gotta take care of yourself, make sure you’re stretching, make sure you keep yourself healthy. I want you in good condition.”

T’Challa balks at that. Erik speaks like he owns T’Challa’s body, like T’Challa is an object to be maintained. Also, he didn’t need any reminder that they would be sparring in the near future. When would this be over? He looks over at the time. Over 8 minutes had passed and Erik is still only rubbing T’Challa’s back. Erik had spent over 8 of the 30 minutes. Surely, he would move on to what he really wanted any second. Any second now.

T’Challa tries to keep his guard up, but as the seconds turn into minutes he can't focus on anything besides the sensations of the massage.

Erik’s hands on him are strong, of course, but also deft. Later it will occur to T’Challa to wonder where Erik picked up his skills. Because he _was_ skilled. He warmed up the muscles, attacked the most knotted muscle groups in just the right places, and put serious force, but not too much, into it until knots actually unknit. T’Challa has had kinesiological massage in the course of his physical training before he received the heart-shaped herb, and this is just as skilled and productively targeted as any of those. Once he had become the Black Panther, of course, the constant rejuvenation of his muscles under the effect of the heart-shaped herb made massage irrelevant for anything other than pleasure.

“I visited a garden, after the general gave me a tour. In the shadow of the palace’s south tower. You been there?”

What? What was Erik talking about now? T’Challa responded irritably, “N'Yami’s Garden. Of course I have been there.” Many times. Since he was a child.

“Is that what it’s called? Huh. How old is the garden? The trees are huge, must be a long time.”

This is even more irritating. ‘A long time?’ Erik came from a place where things were old for existing decades. In comparison Wakanda and many of its traditions and fixtures were ancient. It existed on such a different timescale as to render Erik’s notions of age trivial. And now, in total ignorance of the history of this beautiful nation, this man was king, was principal steward of its people, culture, and monuments.

“It was -- ffff -- built by a queen, over eight hundred years ago.” T’Challa doesn’t remember her name, her dynasty was not particularly memorable. The garden was named presumable after the Queen's wife maybe even daughter. Erik's massage interupts his speech partway through his explanation. Erik draws T'Challa's elbow up his back; first on one side of his spine, then the other.

“Wow.” Erik sounded impressed, and not playfully so, “Eight hundred years. That is wild, man. The oldest park I visited as a kid was built in the 70s. That’s amazing, what you can hold onto.”

T’Challa doesn’t understand what Erik means by, “what you can hold onto,” but the intensity of the massage makes him inclined to pay it no mind.

“The paths there were so beautiful.” Erik’s voice is softer, less antagonistic than at any time yet this evening. “Must be the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen, right down to the little yellow flowers growing between paving stones. They looked like someone had sprinkled yellow beads all over the path, that collected in all the cracks.”

The description makes T'Challa smile despite himself.

“Those are Sun’s Breath. It is a ground cover cultivated to take advantage of spaces between stones. You will also see them on the shaded sides of brick walls.”

“Huh.” Erik says, but this time T’Challa could only hear wonder in his voice. Then thumbs pushing into his lower back take his mind off everything else.

A few moments later, after strong hands have moved to another portion of his back, Erik says, “There were these trees that were dripping with flowers.”

“Hmmm, the Wisteria.”

“Wisteria,” Erik says, “I’ve never seen something like that- drooping purple crowned in white and gold.”

“It is a kind of Wisteria unique to Wakanda, bred as a gift to the Panther Tribe.”

T’Challa is still less mindful of Erik’s words than the knuckles digging intensely into the base of his spine, and finds himself answering more and more absently.

“I think I’ve heard of Wisteria. There are other breeds in Europe, right?”

“All over the world... though they vary quite a bit.”

Another knot gives way and T’Challa almost groans in satisfaction. He hadn’t realized he was carrying so much tension, but he was becoming more and more aware in its absence and it was flooding him with relief. His focus is on the sensation of his muscles under Erik’s hands, as well as, now, the imagery of the century-old Wisteria trees.

“There are similarly impressive specimens in Japan, but even those are less bright... and their bloom does not last as long,” T’Challa says languidly.

“Hmmm,” Erik acknowledges as he continues working.

Some time passes without T’Challa thinking of anything at all.

“And there were some trees dripping yellow,” Erik adds, like an afterthought.

T’Challa hums in response, picturing them clearly. There was a pair with a bench between them that made an idyllic spot.

He does not trouble himself to respond for some time.

Eventually he says, “They are a cultivar... not unlike Golden Chain Trees known elsewhere, but they have no correct name in English.”

“So what’s its proper name?”

T’Challa tells him, and then answers some other questions, and so it continues. He doesn't concern himself much with the details of their exchange, letting the words evaporate as soon as he says them, his attention mostly on his back.

At some point Erik stops, which prompts nothing much in T’Challa, but then he pats T’Challa on the shoulder, saying, “And that’s about time.”

Sluggishly, T’Challa turns his gaze to the timer. There were 23 seconds left.

T’Challa blinks. He had lost all sense of time, and all of the tension he had had before he laid down. He had also forgotten the reason he had to be tense. Now, slowly rolling over and getting ready to sit up, eyelids still drooping, he wonders at Erik. He had T’Challa under his power, through T’Challa’s own agreement, and spent his 30 minutes without ever so much as climbing onto the bed.

In fact, looking at Erik now, feeling relaxed and much lighter, T’Challa notes Erik is definitely aroused inside his loose pants, but he had not so much as fondled T’Challa, and doesn’t look remotely lascivious now. Erik looks calm and steady, at ease, for all that he is probably very physically frustrated. Strangely, it doesn’t trouble T’Challa.

T’Challa stares at the ceiling as he gathers himself to sit up. In the meantime Erik leaves and comes back with a glass of water in hand. T’Challa finally sits up, a labor only because he is feeling exceedingly lazy, a luxury he has not had in weeks. He takes the water Erik offers him but then pauses with it halfway to his lips when Erik leans toward him. T’Challa tenses as Erik’s face comes right up beside his, but then Erik turns and presses his lips briefly to T’Challa’s temple. T’Challa is surprised enough that he stays frozen as Erik stands and heads to the bathroom, calling out as he walks away.

“See you in the morning.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: panic attack, flashbacks to rape, unwanted close contact, victim blaming, character death.


End file.
